Kfe  Lute     I  Life 


JAMES  NEW 


UN,T.  OP  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


The  Lute  of  Life 


JAMES  NEWTON  MATTHEWS 


Edited  by 

WALTER  HURT 


CINCINNATI  : 

HORTON  AND  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1911, 
HORTON  AND  COMPANY 


JAMES  NEWTON  MATTHEWS 

Bard  of  our  Western  world! — its  prairies  wide, 
With  edging  woods,  lost  creeks  and  hidden  ways; 
Its  isolated  farms,  with  roundelays 

Of  orchard  warblers  heard  on  every  side; 

Its  cross-road  school-house,  wherein  still  abide 
Thy  fondest  memories, — since  there  thy  gaze 
First  fell  on  classic  verse;  and  thou,  in  praise 

Of  that,  didst  find  thine  own  song  glorified. 

So  singing,  smite  the  strings  and  counterchange 
The  lucently  melodious  drippings  of 

Thy  happy  harp,  from  airs  of  "Tempe  Vale" 

To  chirp  and  trill  of  lowliest  fiight  and  range, 
In  praise  of  our  To-day  and  home  and  love — 
Thou  meadow-lark  no  less  than  nightingale. 
JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 


2131542 


The  singer  who  lived  is  always  alive  :  we  hearken  and  always 
hear.— JOHN  BoYtR  O'RBn,l,Y. 


IMMORTALITY 

(IN  MEMORY  OF  JAMES  NEWTON  MATTHEWS) 

His  harp  is  hushed  and  rimmed  with  rust, 

Its  music  is  forever  mute; 
The  singer's  lips  are  dumb  in  dust — 

A  dead  hand  lies  across  the  lute. 

Yet  for  the  touch  that  Love  has  taught, 
For  sake  of  sweetness  that  it  gives, 

The  gracious  work  his  genius  wrought 
Shall  live  as  long  as  language  lives. 

WALTER  HURT. 


AN  APPRECIATION 

In  presenting  to  the  world  the  writings  of  James 
Newton  Matthews,  I  hope  I  may  be  pardoned  my  de- 
sire to  plant  a  rose  of  remembrance  above  his  dust. 

His  personal  friendship  was  one  of  the  finest  things 
with  which  my  life  has  been  favored ;  to  be  chosen  as 
his  literary  executor  is  an  honor  most  men  would 
signally  'value,  and  a  trust  few  men  would  not  sa- 
credly hold. 

The  greatest  poetry  is  not  written ;  the  vaster  part 
of  it  can  not  be  reduced  to  verse.  James  Newton 
Matthews  was  the  incarnate  poem.  His  life  was  a 
lyric,  his  death  was  a  threnody. 

Wherefore,  out  of  place  though  it  seem,  I  can  not 
forbear,  at  the  first,  a  word  concerning  the  character 
of  the  man. 

He  was  one  of  the  knightliest  souls  I  ever  knew. 

He  went  forth  as  a  physician  and  ministered  like 
a  priest.  He  healed  the  heart  as  well  as  the  body.  His 
religion  was  a  beautiful  optimism  that  made  better  all 
who  came  within  its  zone.  He  never  was  known  to 
speak  ill  of  any  living  creature.  He  looked  for  the 
good  in  his  fellow-men — and  found  it. 

His  heart  was  a  hospice  for  all  the  world's  re- 
jected. Great  sinners  he  enfolded  with  his  forgiving 
pity,  and  the  mantle  of  his  capacious  charity  covered 
their  multitudinous  defects  until  they  seemed  robed 
with  righteousness. 

He  was  genuinely  a  gentleman. 

In  an  age  of  commercialism,  his  soul  was  not  soiled 
by  any  touch  of  sordidness. 

His  hand  was  responsively  open  to  every  human 
need ;  and  he  gave  to  others  all  that  a  man  may  give, 


8  An  Appreciation 

both  of  service  and  of  substance.  At  the  last  he  gave 
his  life.  For  the  death  of  Dr.  James  Newton  Mat- 
thews was  as  surely  a  martyrdom  as  any  that  halos 
the  pages  of  history. 

Matthews   was  great — and  more;   he   was   good. 

His  life  taught  the  lesson  that  a  noble  nature  is 
greater  than  a  noble  name. 

Such  as  he  are  that  "salt  of  the  earth"  which  savors 
human  society — they  truly  are  the  cream  of  creation. 

Matthews  was  a  man  of  almost  shrinking  modesty. 
In  an  age  of  self-assertion  and  auto-aggrandizement, 
he  stood  abashed  at  the  approach  of  Fame.  Alien  to 
that  class  of  writers  whose  work  is  more  successful 
than  significant,  he  passed  Valhalla's  portals  still  an 
"inheritor  of  unfulfilled  renown." 

He  was  great  without  knowing  it. 

This  adjective  is  used  advisedly,  confident  that  a 
critical  reading  of  his  work  will  justify  it  in  the  mind 
of  every  cultured  person. 

In  appraising  literary  values  it  seldom  is  fortunate 
to  employ  the  superlative  degree;  yet  it  seems  to  me 
that  in  much  he  has  written  this  occidental  Orpheus 
strikes  a  nobler  note  than  any  other  has  sounded  in  the 
entire  orchestra  of  New  World  poesy. 

Wherefore  is  it  meet  that  I  should  sense  my  re- 
sponsibility as  conservator  of  what  Halleck  has  hap- 
pily called 

"That  frailer  thing  than  leaf  or  flower— 
A  poet's  immortality." 

The  duty  is  a  sacred  one,  and  the  work  has  been 
reverently  done. 

Any  attempt  here  at  a  detailed  analysis  of  Dr. 
Matthews'  writings  would  be  an  impertinence.  The 
volume  is  open,  the  pages  are  cut,  and  the  reader  is 
his  own  best  critic. 

Were  this  appreciation  of  mine  more  than  a  verbal 
violet  laid  upon  the  grave  of  a  friend,  it  were  an  un- 
pardonable presumption.  Matthews  needs  no  memo- 


An  Appreciation 


rial.  The  worth  of  his  work  expresses  itself  endur- 
ingly.  The  texture  of  its  tone  is  the  integrity  of  in- 
spiration, and  the  fibre  of  it  is  imperishably  interwoven 
with  the  life  of  his  time. 

So  shall  I  restrict  myself  to  a  general  estimate. 

Many  write  poetry;  Matthews  made  literature. 

Golden-gifted  among  the  Sons  of  Song,  his  sure 
note  sounded  clear  and  vibrant  above  the  myriad  un- 
certain voices. 

Despite  the  greatness  of  his  work,  Matthews  doubt- 
less will  be  ranked  a  "minor  poet"  by  those  superior 
critics  who  presume  to  classify  the  genius  of  their  time 
much  as  a  commission  merchant  grades  his  produce. 
A  minor  poet,  be  it  known,  is  one  who  does  not  make 
verse  which  nobody  understands  and  for  which  nobody 
would  care  did  they  understand  it. 

Clarity  and  directness  mark  the  method  of  Mat- 
thews. Whatever  he  says,  he  wishes  to  be  understood. 
The  integrity  of  his  ideation  is  such  that  he  needs  not 
to  cocoon  it  with  any  cryptic  phrasings.  Ambiguity 
is  the  antithesis  of  effective  poetic  expression.  Mat- 
thews' work  proves  that  simplicity  is  not  incompatible 
with  the  transmission  of  true  inspiration. 

Notwithstanding  the  lamentations  of  preterist  crit- 
ics, probably  more  good  poetry  is  being  written  at 
present  than  has  been  produced  in  any  previous  period. 
Seldom,  however,  does  any  versifier  soar  to  Helicon's 
summit.  Too  often  the  workmanship  is  not  all  that 
could  be  wished,  else  the  thought  leaves  much  to  be 
desired.  On  one  hand,  the  writer,  with  slavish  defer- 
ence to  form,  mistakes  the  mechanics  of  prosody  for 
art ;  on  the  other  hand,  he  ostentatiously  despises  tech- 
nique in  order  to  disguise  his  lack  of  mastery  of  it.  In 
Matthews'  work  we  find  the  rare  combination  of  a 
satisfying  excellence  in  both  matter  and  manner. 

Matthews  has  a  fine  sense  of  word  values  and  a 
delicate  discrimination  in  their  application.  He  writes 
always  with  the  restraint  of  the  conscious  artist,  re- 
pressing that  exuberance  of  expression  instinctive  to 


io  An  Appreciation 

poetic  natures  and  which  in  all  its  lavish  license  mars 
so  much  nearly  excellent  work  of  many  of  our  present- 
day  versifiers.  His  most  finished  productions,  how- 
beit,  relieved  as  they  are  by  the  spirit  of  spontaneity, 
show  not  the  effect  of  effort.  He  mixes  the  pigments 
of  poetry  in  just  proportion,  and  applies  them  with 
proper  tone  and  perfect  touch.  His  most  vivid  colors 
never  are  gaudy,  but  blend  harmoniously  even  as  the 
flaming  poppy  consonantly  lends  its  impassioned  im- 
press to  the  landscape's  cooling  green.  But  mostly 
his  color  effects  are  subdued  and  mellow,  like  sunlight 
filtered  through  stained  glass,  and  chaste  as  the  at- 
mosphere of  a  cathedral.  And  this  excellence  is  not 
less  essential  than  artistic,  for  pervading  all  his  work 
is  that  quality  of  completeness  and  ripened  perfection 
which  suggests  the  odor  and  bloom  of  empurpled 
grapes. 

His  genius  is  various,  his  versatile  verse  ranging 
from  the  chaste  classicism  of  "Tempe  Vale"  to  the 
homely  humor  of  "The  Girl  'at  Kep'  a  Diary";  from 
the  noble  dignity  of  "A  Tribute  to  Tennyson"  to  the 
human  drollery  of  "The  Country  Boy  at  School."  To 
borrow  from  Moore,  Matthews  was  a  minstrel 

"Who  ran  through  each  mode 
Of  the  lyre,  and  was  master  of  all." 

Literary  comparisons  are  not  complimentary  to 
originality.  It  is  a  tremendous  tribute  to  the  individu- 
ality of  Matthews  that  he  has  been  likened  to  no  other 
writer.  Emerson  says,  "He  is  truly  great  who  is  what 
he  is  from  nature,  and  who  never  reminds  us  of 
others."  Matthews  is  sui  generis;  he  writes  like  none 
other  than  himself. 

Our  poet  is  too  recent  for  a  just  renown.  Con- 
temporaneity is  not  favorable  to  complete  appreciation. 
When  the  perspective  of  the  years  shall  have  fixed 
the  proportions  of  genius,  when  Time  has  affixed  his 
appraisement,  then  will  the  balances  of  Fame  be  truly 


An  Appreciation  u 

adjusted.     In  that  day  will  James  Newton  Matthews 
come  into  his  own. 

This  age  is  a  struggle  between  Culture  and  Com- 
mercialism. It  is  the  Poet  that  takes  the  aesthetic 
measurement  of  his  time.  The  Vulgar  Rich — the  over- 
fed Barbarians — may  purchase  paintings,  but  they  do 
not  read  poetry.  That  is  a  practice  exclusive  to  the 
intellectual  aristocracy. 

No  deeper  disgrace  can  come  to  any  nation  than 
that  it  neglect  its  great  poets.  Their  works  are  their 
monuments.  This  book  of  James  Newton  Matthews 
should  be  reared  in  a  pile  to  overtop  the  pyramids. 

Genius  dwells  not  always  in  populous  places;  and 
it  consecfates  surely  whatever  spot  where  it  abides. 
For  Shakespeare's  sake  is  Stratford-on-the-Avon  hal- 
lowed ground,  and  because  of  Burns  does  the  world 
make  its  pilgrimage  to  Ayr.  And  so  in  after  years 
may  the,  obscure  hamlet  of  Mason  in  Southern  Illinois, 
for  that  it  was  the  home  of  James  Newton  Matthews, 
become  the  Mecca  of  mankind.  And  as  in  a  later  time 
the  genius  of  Tennyson  and  Swinburne  and  Rossetti 
illumined  England's  empire,  so  in  days  to  come  will 
the  work  of  James  Newton  Matthews  give  an  added 
lustre  to  American  letters. 

HURT. 


CONTENTS 


PAQH 

AD  FINEM 221 

AFFINITY 73 

AFTER  A  LITTLE  WHILE 91 

ALONE  AT  THE  FARM 101 

ALONG  THE  WABASH 120 

AN  AUTUMN  THOUGHT 320 

AN  EPISTOLARY  EXCHANGE 247 

AN  EXTRAVAGANT  SIMILE 257 

AN  INVOCATION 259 

AN  ODD  FANCY 233 

AN  OPEN  WINTER 286 

ANOTHER  VIEW 192 

AN  OUTLOOK 182 

AN  UNDECORATED  GRAVE 148 

ASHES  OF  SHELLEY,  THE 255 

AT  BAY 200 

AT  CHRISTMAS  EVE 286 

AT  DUSK 123 

AT  MAXINKUCKEE 291 

AT  MILKING  TIME 298 

AT  STORM  LAKE 279 

AT  THANKSGIVING 122 

AT  THE  TELESCOPE 140 

AT  UNCLE  REUBEN  RAGAN'S 180 

AT  WATERLOO 28 

BALLADE  OF  BUSY  DOCTORS 241 

BALLADE  OF  OLD  POETS 79 

BALLAD  OF  DECORATION,  A 33 

BALLAD  OF  TEARS,  A 224 

BATHER,  THE 82 

BEFORE  THE  DOCTOR 219 

"BEFORE  THE  WAR" 319 

BEHIND  THE  VEIL 38 

BENEATH  A  PICTURE 310 

13 


14  Contents 


PAOB 

BlTTER-SWEET 174 

BLONDE  AND  BRUNETTE 74 

BLUEBIRD  IN  JANUARY,  A 322 

BURDEN  OF  BABYLON,  THE 262 

CALIFORNIA 54 

CHARLEY  GIBBS 57 

CHOICE,  THE 130 

CHRISTMAS  MORNING 326 

CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS 242 

CITY  OF  SNOW,  THE 137 

CONSOLATION,  A 118 

CONTEMPLATION,  A 316 

CONTRADICTION 272 

COULD  LOVE  Do  MORE? 301 

COULD  SHE  BUT  KNOW 315 

COUNTRY  BOY  AT  SCHOOL,  THE 208 

COWARD,  THE 30 

CRIME,  THE 201 

CRY  OF  MARGUERITE,  THE 116 

DAY  AND  NIGHT 220 

DEAD  POET,  THE 26 

DEATH  OF  THE  BABY,  THE 281 

DEATH-RUNE,  A 343 

DEATH — WHAT  Is  IT? 328 

DECORATION  DAY 46 

DESERTED  INN,  THE 76 

DISSIPATED  GENIUS,  A 327 

DOOM. 215 

DOVES,  THE 290 

DREAM,  A 218 

DREAM  ABOUT  SONNETS,  A 194 

DREAM  IN  MARBLE,  A 119 

DREAM-LADY,  A 320 

DREAM  OF  BEAUTY,  A 114 

DREAM  OF  DAYS,  A 39 

DREAM  OF  THE  END  OF  EVERYTHING,  A 49 

DR.  JOHN  A.  WARDER 245 

DR.  STEPHEN  J.  YOUNG .  250 


Contents  1 5 


PAGE 

DUSK 110 

DYING  BUTTERFLY,  THE 295 

ECLIPSE  OF  THE  MOON 138 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 142 

EDISON 261 

ENCHANTED  POOL,  THE 288 

END  OF  A  WALK 248 

ESAU 65 

EUGENE  FIELD '. 106 

EXECUTION,  THE 243 

EYES  OF  ELEANORA,  THE 163 

FAITH  AND  DUTY 145 

FETTERS  OF  FLESH,  THE 125 

FIRST  GRAY  HAIR,  THE 129 

FLOOD,  THE 252 

FLOWER-GIRL,  THE 90 

FOOLISH  MARINERS,  THE 260 

FOR  AN  ALBUM 202 

FRAGMENT,  A 167 

GARDEN  OF  LOVE,  THE 289 

GARLAND  FOR  THE  DEAD,  A. . . 156 

"GAUN  HAME" 175 

GENIUS 170 

GHOSTS  OF  MY  GARDEN,  THE 237 

GIRL  'AT  KEP'  A  DIARY,  THE 172 

GLIMPSE,  A 169 

GOLDEN  WEDDING,  A 217 

GREEN  LANES  OF  THE  PAST,  THE 45 

GRUB  STREET 205 

HASTY  BURIAL,  A 112 

HER  COMING 133 

HER  FEET  ON  THE  FENDER 40 

HER  KNITTING  NEEDLES 115 

HINT  OF  OLD  AGE,  A 269 

How  THEY  BURIED  HIM 36 

HUNTER'S  MOON,  THE 66 

HYMN  OF  CONSOLATION,  A 158 


1 6  Contents 


PAGE 

IDEALIST,  THE 147 

IF 149 

ILLINOIS 209 

IN  A  BOOK-STALL 88 

IN  AN  OLD  GARDEN 249 

IN  DAYS  TO  COME 78 

INDIANA 129 

INDIAN  SUMMER 93 

IN  KANSAS-TOWN 48 

IN  PEACEFUL  DAYS 198 

IN  SICKNESS ; 143 

INSOMNIA 233 

IN  SOUDAN 221 

IN  SUMMER  WOODS 212 

IN  TEMPE  VALE 175 

IN  THE  GARRET 28 

IN  THE  LAZY  TWILIGHT 166 

ISLAND  OF  REIL,  THE 102 

JOHN  PETTIJOHN 280 

"JOUKYD  ADDLES" 236 

JULY  IN  THE  WEST 70 

KIDNAPED 97 

LADY  LAURA  IN  THE  NORTH 296 

LADY  OF  MY  DREAM,  THE 189 

LAST  HOURS  OF  CHATTERTON 191 

LAY  OF  THE  HOPELESS 222 

LEAVE-TAKING,  A 284 

LEGEND  BEAUTIFUL,  A 44 

LETTER  TO  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY,  A 86 

LIBBY  PRISON  IN  CHICAGO 309 

LIFE'S  HOROSCOPE 162 

LIFE— WHAT  Is  IT? 328 

LILT  OF  THE  LUNATIC 309 

LINES  TO  A  TERRAPIN 132 

LITTLE  GIRL  THAT  COULD  NOT  CRY,  THE 258 

LONG  JOURNEY  HOME,  THE 201 

LOUISVILLE .  162 


Contents  1 7 


PAGE 

LOVE  AND  DUTY 166 

LOVE'S  APOLOGY 126 

LOYALTY  OF  NATURE..  61 


McCuLLQUGH's  AUTOGRAPH 257 

MAD  DECEMBER 319 

MANHOOD'S  MEASURE 44 

MARBLE  MONARCH,  A 169 

MARCH 164 

MARKING  IN  LONGFELLOW,  A 124 

MEADOW-LARK,  THE 226 

MEADOWS  OF  GOLD 293 

"  MEN  ARE  APRIL  WHEN  THEY  Woo " 154 

MORNING  IN  THE  WOODS 146 

MURMURS  OF  MARCH 207 

MY  FAVORITE  POEM 305 

MY  FIRST  BOOK 92 

MY  FRIENDS 42 

MY  GOOD  RIGHT  HAND 187 

MY  GUEST 238 

MY  LADY  BEAUTIFUL 144 

MY  MUSE 273 

MY  NAMESAKE 273 

MY  SCHOOL-MATE,  LITTLE  GOGGLES. 43 

MYSTERY  OF  BARRINGTON  MEADOWS,  THE 254 

NATIONAL  BIRTHDAY  BALLAD,  A 195 

NEW  DOCTOR,  THE 215 

NEW  NOCTURNE,  A 245 

NIGHTFALL 253 

NIGHT  IN  JUNE,  A 98 

NIGHT  IN  NOVEMBER,  A 154 

NIGHT  You  QUOTED  BURNS  TO  ME,  THE 47 

NOCTURNE,  A 161 

NOT  A  POET 150 

NOT  IN  MOOD 323 

NOVEMBER 318 

NOVEMBER  DOWN  THE  WABASH 80 

NUTTING  DOWN  THE  WABASH..  .   122 


1 8  Contents 


PAGE 

O  BLEAK  is  THE  NIGHT 285 

OCTOBER 112 

O  HEART  OF  MINE! 27 

OLD  CAPTAIN,  THE 145 

OLD  COUNTRY  ROAD,  THE 55 

OLD  FIRE-PLACE,  THE 139 

OLD  HOUSE-FLY,  THE 229 

OLD  MAJOR  SPEAKS,  THE 298 

OLD  MILL,  THE 95 

OLD  SOLDIERS 160 

OLD  VILLAGE  DEPOT,  THE 141 

ON  A  LAUREL  CANE 323 

ONCE  ON  A  TIME 50 

ON  EASY  STREET 63 

ONE  GOLDEN  HAIR 110 

ON  PARTING  WITH  LOUISE 164 

ON  WABASH  STREAM 168 

OUT  ON  THE  FARM ; 41 

PASSING  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR 303 

PASSION'S  CHECKMATE 234 

PATRICK  HENRY  CRONIN 271 

PAUSE  AT  THE  PORTAL,  A 179 

PEASANT  AND  THE  POET,  THE 225 

PEOPLE  OF  THE  PEN,  THE 205 

PIONEERS,  THE 311 

PLACE  BEAUTIFUL,  THE 153 

PLAINT  OF  THE  PESSIMIST 266 

POET,  THE 211 

PRINCE  OF  BOHEMIANS,  THE 204 

PROFILE  OF  FALL,  A 52 

RAINLESS  APRIL,  A 294 

RED  ANARCHIST,  A 99 

REFLECTION,  A 293 

RETORT,  A 240 

RETROSPECT,  A 63 

RHYME  OF  BROWN  OCTOBER,  A 100 

RHYME  OF  RESIGNATION,  A 219 

ROBERT  BURNS 302 

RONDEAUX  OF  REMEMBRANCE.  .  .  171 


Contents  1 9 


PAGE 

SEA-WEED,  A 203 

SECRET,  THE 246 

SEVERED  FRIENDSHIP 193 

SHAKESPEARE 256 

SHE  SLEEPS » . . .  282 

SICK  IN  THE  CITY 135 

SILENT  SINGER,  THE 325 

SLIVER  FROM  THE  SPHINX,  A 60 

SOLDIER  OF  CASTILE,  THE 263 

SONG,  A 223 

SONG  OF  THE  SKEPTIC 213 

SONG  WE  SEEK,  THE 232 

SONNET,  THE 297 

SONNETS  TO  THE  RIVER  W 275 

SPIRIT  OF  POETRY,  THE 184 

STORY  OF  "SHE, "  THE 303 

SWEETHEART  I  NEVER  HAVE  SEEN,  THE 81 

SYMBOLS 83 

TATTERED  BANNERS,  THE 300 

TELL  ME  SOMETHING 322 

THERE  is  NO  LUCK  ABOUT  THE  HOUSE 127 

THERE  is  NO  REST 189 

"THEY  HAD  NO  POET  AND  so  THEY  DIED" 56 

THOUGHT,  A 38 

THWARTED 62 

'T  is  ALWAYS  SUNDAY  IN  THE  WOODS 155 

To  A  BIRD  ON  THE  TELEGRAPH  WIRE 268 

To  A  CRITIC 165 

To  A  LADY 304 

To  A  SLEEPING  BOY 235 

TOAST  TO  THE  PAST,  A 185 

To  ELEANORE 327 

To  JESSIE 87 

To  JOAQUIN  MILLER 60 

To  JOHN  CLARK  RIDPATH 128 

To  JOHN  URI  LLOYD 109 

To  MADELINE 32 

To  MADGE 228 

To  MAURICE  THOMPSON 270 

To  Miss  A.  B.  S...  .  321 


20  Contents 


PAGE 

To  MY  ABSENT  WIFE 227 

To  MY  LADY  NICOTINA 75 

To  NATURE 288 

To  RILEY. 178 

To  STEPHEN 265 

To  THE  BARD  THAT  is  TO  BE 231 

To  THEOPHILUS  VAN  DERAN 274 

To  THE  MARCH  MOON 96 

To  WILLIAM  VAIL 199 

TRIBUTE  TO  TENNYSON,  A 34 

TWENTY  YEARS  AFTER 151 

TWILIGHT  IN  AUGUST 91 

UNCLE  DAVE 68 

UPON  HER  WRIST 284 

VAGARY  IN  VERSE,  A 197 

VALE! 240 

VALEDICTION,  A 329 

VALENTINE,  A 278 

VALE  OF  GOLD,  THE 136 

VANISHING  VISIONS 325 

VISION,  A 180 

VOICES,  THE 113 


WAKING  AND  SLEEPING 108 

WALT  WHITMAN 53 

'WAY  DOWN  IN  SPICE  VALLEY 73 

WHAT  DOES  IT  MATTER  ? 220 

WHEN  I  AM  OLD 253 

WHEN  I  COME  HOME 318 

WHEN  I  SHALL  MEET  MY  YOUTH  AGAIN 37 

WHEN  JIMMY  COMES  FROM  SCHOOL 69 

WHEN  MAIDS  FORGET 244 

WHEN  MARY  WENT  TO  BETHLEHEM 65 

WHEN  PANSY  PLAYS  THE  VIOLIN 85 

WHEN  REUBEN  WAS  MY  BEAU 276 

WHEN  RILEY  WRITES 134 

WHEN  WE  THREE  MEET 98 

WHEN  YOUR  FATHER  WENT  TO  WAR..                            .  305 


Contents  2 1 


PAGE 

WHERE  WILLIE  WAS 287 

WHY  NOT? 121 

WILLIAM  HENRY  RAGAN 84 

WINTER  NIGHT,  A 326 

WINTER  NIGHT  AMONG  MY  BOOKS,  A 131 

WINTER  NIGHT  ON  THE  FARM 71 

WITH  THE  DOCTOR 92 

WOMAN 168 

WRITER,  THE Ill 

YOUNG  EGYPT'S  SONG  TO  THE  NORTH 51 

? 72 

TRIBUTES  IN  VERSE 

PR/ENOMINAL,  Bishop  Robert  Mclntyre 333 

SOVEREIGN  SINGER,  THE,  Bishop  Robert  Mclntyre 333 

SONNET  TO  A  SINGER,  Minnie  Adella  Hausen 337 

OUR  SINGING  DOCTOR,  Benjamin  S.  Parker 337 

WREATH  o'  HEATHER,  A,  Alonzo  Hilton  Davis 338 

NATURE'S  TROUBADOUR,  Lee  Fairchild 339 

WESTERN  WARBLER,  A,  Walter  Hurt 339 


OUR  BELOVED  BARD,  Benjamin  S.  Parker 345 

ODE,  Henry  Tudor 346 

MY  JAMESY,  William  Colby  Cooper 347 


THE  LUTE  OF  LIFE 


THE  DEAD  POET 

Like  some  large  light  his  life  went  out, 
Undimmed  by  any  shade  of  doubt, 

Leaving  behind 

The  image  of  a  mind 
Star-white,  and  by  the  very  night  refined. 

Love  linked  his  spirit  unto  ours 
Briefly,  but  with  a  chain  of  flowers — 

And  every  thought 

Of  his,  it  seemed,  was  fraught 
With    beauty   from   some    brighter   planet 
brought. 

He  scattered  lilies  all  the  way 
That  Love  ordained  his  feet  to  stray, 
And  when  he  broke 
Time's  chrysalis,  and  woke 
In  Paradise,  we  pondered  all  he  spoke. 


The  Lute  of  Life 


O  HEART  OF  MINE! 

O  heart  of  mine !  you  are  far  from  home, 

And  steep  are  the  summits  that  round  you  lie ; 
Darker  and  darker  the  ways  you  roam, 

And  danger  lurks  in  the  lands  thereby; 
You  look  so  weary,  O  heart  of  mine! 

You  stagger  and  faint  like  a  stricken  thing;- — 
Come  back,  come  back,  to  the  warmth  and  wine, 

Where  the  old  friends  are  and  the  robins  sing ! 

Is  nothing  left  that  you  care  for  more, 

Nothing  of  pleasure — naught  to  allure, 
Where  the  summer  dreams  in^he  open  door, 

And  the  lights  fail  not,  and  the  loves  endure  ? 
O  heart  of  mine,  in  the  wilderness 

Straying  alone  the  long  nights  through, 
Come  back,  come  back,  to  the  old  caress, 

And  the  welcome  warm  that  is  waiting  you ! 

Come  with  laughter  and  come  with  song, 

To  the  quiet  loves  and  the  kindly  ways — 
To  the  lonely  soul  that  has  watched  so  long 

Thro'  perilous  nights  and  painful  days — 
Waited  and  watched,  and  wondered  why 

You  came  not  back  to  the  glad  sunshine, 
Where  we  were  so  happy,  you  and  I, 

And  Love  was  with  us,  O  heart  of  mine ! 

27 


28  The  Lute  of  Life 

AT  WATERLOO 

"Stand  firm !"  said  the  Duke,  as  a  courier  came 
Thro'  the  battery's  breath,  with  his  bare  brow  aflame ; 
"Stand  firm!"— "But  we  perish"— "Stand  firm!"  cried 

the  Duke, 

And  the  officer  flushed  as  he  felt  the  rebuke, 
But  he  coolly  replied,  'mid  the  roar  of  the  gun, . 
"You  '11  find  us  all  here  when  the  battle  is  done." 

Death's  carnival  followed.    O'er  field  and  o'er  trench, 

In  billows  of  doom,  dashed  the  waves  of  the  French ; 

As  firm  as  a  sea-battered  wall  stood  the  rank 

Of  that  fated  brigade, — not  an  English  heart  shrank ; 

Together  they  perished,  but  Wellington  won, — 

He  found  them  all  there  when  the  battle  was  done. 


IN  THE  GARRET 

Up  in  the  garret,  shut  off  from  the  day, 
Where  the  cobwebs  hang  and  the  spiders  play, 
Where  the  mouse  runs  over  the  naked  sill, 
And  the  cricket  is  grinding  her  coffee-mill — 
Ah,  that  is  the  place  where  the  soul  can  hide 
In  a  nest  of  memories  glorified 
By  the  flight  of  time  and  the  fall  of  tears, 
Where  nobody  sees  and  nobody  hears. 

When  the  dull  rain  drips,  and  the  house  is  still, 
And  the  heart  grows  sad,  as  it  sometimes  will, 
There  is  never  a  spot  on  the  earth  so  sweet 
To  pleasure  the  fancy  and  rest  the  feet, 
As  the  mellowing  twilight  brooding  there, 
Where  the  rafters  meet,  like  the  hands  in  prayer, 
Over  the  dreamer  fingering  slow 
The  tear-stained  relics  of  long  ago. 

Everything  has  a  hallowed  look, 
From  a  rusty  key  to  a  copy-book 


The  Lute  of  Life 29 

Wherein  was  scrawled  in  a  boyish  hand 
Some  verse  that  a  girl  might  understand — 
Some  blue-eyed  maid  of  the  past,  whose  name 
Went  out  in  the  heat  of  a  fiercer  flame 
When  the  Fair  Prince  came  and  bore  her  away 
From  the  heart  that  beckons  her  back  to-day. 

Perchance  a  ribbon  is  brought  to  view 
That  fettered  a  braid  of  a  golden  hue 
In  the  primrose  time,  when  the  heart  beat  high 
With  a  hope  that  died  as  the  years  went  by ; 
Or  a  letter,   scented  with  mignonette 
And  dewed  with  the  tears  of  an  old  regret, 
Is  lifted  out  of  its  grave,  forsooth, 
Adrip  with  the  odorous  dreams  of  youth. 

Under  the  gable  window  lies, 

Hidden  away  from  the  world's  cold  eyes, 

An  old  accordion,  cracked  and  dumb, 

Waiting  a  hand  that  will  never  come — 

The  touch  of  a  sister,  long  since  strayed 

From  the  old  hearth-stone,  where  she  sat  and 

played 

In  a  light  less  bright  than  the  loving  look 
That  gladdened  her  face  in  the  chimney-nook. 

And  over  there  where  the  shadows  steal 
Is  the  phantom  shape  of  a  spinning-wheel, 
Whose  homely  runes  from  the  days  of  yore 
Come  echoing  back  to  the  heart's  warm  core 
In  strains  more  sweet  than  an  artist  wrings 
From  the  voiceful  flute  or  the  viol's  strings — 
For  the  wraith  of  a  mother  beside  it  stands, 
Twirling  it  still  with  her  blessed  hands. 

And  what  is  this  but  a  moldering  boot 
With  a  coppered  toe,  for  the  toddling  foot 
Of  one  who  waded  the  earliest  snow 
Of  a  winter  that  went  long  years  ago? 


30  The  Lute  of  Life 


Dear  little  brother!  your  feet  are  shod 
Long  since  with  light  for  the  hills  of  God, 
And  the  old  home  stairs  are  echoing  still 
The  steps  we  '11  follow  when  fate  shall  will. 

In  the  dust  of  the  garret  Old  Time's  track 
Is  found,  with  his  foot-prints  all  turned  back, 
As  if,  while  the  shadows  were  round  him  cast, 
He  had  bowed  his  head  o'er  the  sleeping  past ; 
And  under  the  rafters  Memory  sits, 
Alone  with  the  spiders,  and  knits  and  knits 
The  gossamer  ladders  that  Fancy  climbs 
To  the  golden  gates  of  the  olden  times. 


THE  COWARD 

Dave  was  a  coward  and  everyone 

Knew  it,  and  Lord !  how  we  went  for  him, 
And  made  him  the  butt  of  our  brutal  fun, 

Till  his  face  would  blanch  and  his  blue  eyes  brim 
Into  pools  of  tears ! — but  he  murmured  not — 

He  would  just  skulk  off  to  his  tent  and  sit 
Hour  after  hour  in  the  self-same  spot, 

With  his  elbow  crook'd  and  his  face  in  it. 

There  was  something  about  that  same  boy  Dave — 

Something  we  never  could  understand ; 
He  came  to  the  war  on  the  first  wild  wave 

That  billowed  the  blue-caps  over  the  land. 
He  was  an  orphan,  and  whether  he  had 

Brother  or  sister  we  never  knew, 
Nor  whence  he  came  to  us — he  was  a  lad 

That  was  hard  to  fathom,  and  talked  with  few. 

Somehow  it  seemed  that  he  was  not  brave 
Like  the  rest  of  the  boys,  but  he  kept  his  place 

In  the  long  and  perilous  march,  poor  Dave, 
With  a  hushed  resolve  and  a  patient  face. 


The  Lute  of  Life  31 


He  asked  no  favors,  he  made  no  sign 

Of  the  pangs  that  pierced  his  pride  like  a  dart — 
And  never  a  man  in  the  old  proud  line 

Had  a  cleaner  soul  or  a  kinder  heart. 

But  Dave  was  a  coward!  and  that  was  enough, 

In  the  army,  to  damn  the  saintliest  soul ; 
'Twas  a  day  for  the  sternest  and  sturdiest  stuff, 

For  steel-strung  nerves  and  for  self-control ; 
We  had  small  time  for  sentiment,  then — 

Small  time  to  squander  on  childish  fears — 
A  man  had  to  stand  like  a  man,  with  men, 

Full-fronting  the  havoc  of  those  dark  years. 

I  think  it  is  true  in  the  lives  of  some 

That  the  tide  turns  late,  and  the  pluck  they  boast 
Falters,  and  those  to  the  front  will  come 

Who  were  counted  the  weakest  and   scorned  the 

most; 
Two  silences  bide  in  the  breast  of  youth, 

And  one  is  the  silence  of  fear — and  one 
Is  the  golden,  God-like  silence  of  truth, 

That  a  braggart  even  is  bound  to  shun. 

Did  I  say  Dave  was  a  coward? — Well, 

It  looked  that  way  for  a  while,  but  when 
We  saw  him  flash  through  the  breath  of  hell 

At  Stone  River,  laughing  among  the  men — 
When  we  caught  the  gleam  of  his  yellow  hair 

Through  the  battery's  smoke,  and  heard  his  voice 
Ring  out  through  the  roar  of  the  carnage  there, 

With  the  troops  of  Turchin  from  Illinois; 

When  we  saw,  like  a  star,  his  pale  face  shine 

Through  the  leaping  flames,  as  we  passed  the  mouth 

Of  the  blazing  guns,  in  the  broken  line, 

Whirling  and  hurling  the  gray-coats  south — 

When  we  saw,  God  help  us !  his  boyish  form 
Battling  apart  from  the  rest,  half-hid 


32  The  Lute  of  Life 


By  the  blinding  smoke  and  the  bursting  storm, 
Where  the  dead  were  piled  in  a  pyramid; 

When  we  saw,  in  the  front  of  the  awful  fray, 

The  bravest  reel,  and  the  old  flag  fall, 
Clutched  in  the  hand  of  the  lad  that  lay 

Riddled  with  shot,  and  beyond  them  all — 
When  we  saw,  at  the  close  of  that  fearful  fight, 

Two  blue  eyes  and  a  shock  of  curls, 
Clotted  with  blood,  and  a  face  all  white 

And  calm,  in  death,  as  a  sleeping  girl's; 

We  turned  away — and  we  spoke  no  word; 

We  turned,  with  a  feeling  of  shame  o'erpowered ; 
And  we  noticed  that  each  man's  eyes  were  blurred 

As  they  fell  on  the  face  of  that  fallen  coward. 
I  tell  you  the  army  was  full  of  men 

Like  Dave,  who,  timid  and  half-afraid, 
Patiently  bided  their  time,  and  then 

Died,  like  Christs,  on  the  barricade. 


TO  MADELINE 

The  stars  that  at  my  casement  shine 
Pale  in  thine  eyes,  O  Madeline, — 
Thine  eyes,  within  whose  depths  I  see 
A  light  of  love  that  lureth  me 
To  quest  the  seas  beyond  the  line 
That  separates  thy  soul  from  mine, 
O  Madeline! 

Not  any  silks  of  Samarcand 
Are  softer  than  thy  snowy  hand; 
Not  any  lily-flower  afloat 
Can  mate  the  whiteness  of  thy  throat, 
Nor  any  floss,  however  fine, 
Compare  with  that  brown  hair  of  thine, 
O  Madeline! 


The  Lute  of  Life 33 

The  timid  apple-blossom  dyes 
That  laugh  into  the  warm  May  skies, 
The  tender  crimson  tints  that  dwell 
Within  the  windings  of  a  shell, — 
These  mingling  hints  of  cream  and  wine, 
These  tempting  hues  thy  cheeks  combine, 
O  Madeline! 

The  pouting  grapes  that  bend  the  vines 
What  time  the  still  September  shines, 
The  softened  scarlet  on  the  peach 
That  glimmers  just  beyond  our  reach, — 
These  but  suggest  in  colors  fine 
The  sweetness  of  those  lips  divine, 
O  Madeline! 

Yet  all  the  graces,  all  the  charms, 
Of  eyes  and  hair,  of  lips  and  arms, 
Are  but  the  outward  signs  that  show 
The  life,  the  light,  the  heat,  the  glow, 
The  flames  of  love  that  leap  and  twine, 
Where  I  would  warm  this  heart  of  mine, 
O  Madeline! 


A  BALLAD  OF  DECORATION 

In  the  garlanded  grass  where  the  multitudes  plod, 
And  the  splendor  of  spring  overflows, 

The  souls  of  the  heroes  climb  up  thro'  the  sod 
And  smile  in  the  cheeks  of  the  rose. 

We  turn  back  the  leaves  of  the  ledger  of  doom 
And  trace  thro'  the  stains  of  old  tears 

The  story  that  closed  'mid  the  grief  and  the  gloom 
Of  the  wearisome,  war-shadowed  years. 

We  stifle  a  sigh  as  we  trample  the  clay 
Where  the  ranks  of  the  pale  legions  lie — 


34  The  Lute  of  Life 


And  we  dream,  as  we  turn  from  their  tablets  away, 
That  for  freedom  'tis  glorious  to  die. 

The  teeth  of  Old  Time  on  the  granite  may  grate 
Till  the  proudest  shafts  crumble  and  fall — 

But  Remembrance  will  stand  with  her  flowers  at  the 

gate 
Till  the  trumpet  is  loosed  on  the  wall. 

Ah,  sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  roses,  and  sweet 
Are  the  light  and  the  laughter  of  May; 

But  the  Past,  like  a  spectre,  is  chained  at  our  feet, 
In  the  flash  of  his  martial  array. 

The  chaplets  of  love  we  may  bind  on  the  urns 
Of  the  Blue  and  the  Gray  with  our  tears, 

But  the  wrong  of  rebellion  still  rankles  and  burns 
Like  a  fire  in  the  heart  of  the  years. 

The  shriek  of  the  bondmen,  the  clank  of  the  chain, 

Are  hushed,  as  a  tale  that  is  told, 
And  the  clouds  that  once  hung  like  a  pall  o'er  the  plain 

Have  swept  by,  and  the  skies  are  as  gold. 

The  birds  build  their  nests  in  the  cannon's  cold  lips, 
The  camps  have  extinguished  their  fires, 

And  the  baby  of  Ethiop  plays  with  the  whips 
That  were  soaked  in  the  blood  of  its  sires. 


He  died,  as  died  the  daylight  on 
The  Surrey  hills, — across  his  eyes 
The  full  moon  mounting  up  the  skies 

In  streams  of  mellow  glory  shone. 

No  Bedivere  of  brawny  limb 
Upbore  him  to  the  lake's  lone  strand, 


The  Lute  of  Life 35 

Nor  any   samite-mantled  hand 
Pushed  up  the  wave  to  welcome  him. 

He  went  alone,  and  questioned  not, 
Clothed  on  with  love  and  reverence, 
To  sing  of  grander  tournaments, 

Beside  an  older  Camelot. 

Across  the  lonely  mountain  mere 
His  silver  bark  bears  down  the  dusk, 
Beyond  the  happy  bowers  of  Usk, 

Where  summer  bideth  all  the  year. 

The  last  of  all  the  knights  and  best, 
The  one  whose  purpose  did  not  fail 
Until  he  found  the  Holy  Grail 

Of  truth, — his  one  eternal  Quest! 

Tho'  Merlin  moveth  to  his  rest, 
The  old  enchantment  passes  not, — 
We  still  can  ride  with  Lancelot, 

And  war  with  Modred  in  the  West. 

We  still  can  pity  Guinevere, 

When,  prone  before  the  blameless  King, 
And  writhing  like  a  stricken  thing, 

She  weeps  her  sins  out,  tear  by  tear. 

Tho'  Merlin  goeth  to  his  rest, 

The  woven  charm  can  never  change ; 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange, 

The  one  sad  love  is  still  confessed. 

We  still  can  hear  the  curlews  call, 
And  from  the  barren,  barren  shore 
Can  see  the  dreary  gleams,  once  more, 

Around  the  towers  of  Locksley  Hall. 


36  The  Lute  of  Life 


The  spell  of  song  is  broken  not, 
And  evermore  on  English  ground 
The  good  Knights  of  the  Table  Round 

Will  hold  their  court  at  Camelot. 


HOW  THEY  BURIED  HIM 

To-day  they  buried  my  old  friend  Willis, 

My  boy-friend  Willis  of  happier  years — 
Willis,  once  true  as  the  rock  to  the  hill  is, 

First  with  his  laughter,  as  first  with  his  tears; 
Life  in  his  eyes  was  a  volume  full-written 

Of  sadness  and  gladness,  of  shadow  and  shine; 
Humble  his  lot  was,  alack!  and  sin-smitten, 

But  words  that  condemn  him  shall  never  be  mine. 

I  stood  on  the  verge  of  his  low  grave  this  morning, 

I  heard  the  dull  roll  of  the  clods  on  the  board, 
And  the  silence  around  had  a  semblance  of  scorning 

That  cut  to  the  core  of  my  soul  like  a  sword. 
A  cold  text  of  Scripture,  made  cold  by  the  reading, 

No  word  sympathetic  to  comfort  or  thrill  us, — 
No  least  muttered  hope  for  the  mother-heart  bleeding, 

No  syllabled  hint  of  the  future  of  Willis. 

No  fault  flecked  the  soul  of  my  comrade  but  weak- 
ness,— 

By  nature  a  mortal  ineffably  tender, 
And  guiltless,  withal,  as  a  girl  in  her  meekness, 

He  battled  his  best,  but  was  forced  to  surrender. 
God,  leaning  out  from  His  golden  embrasure, 

Witnessed  the  long-losing  struggle  until,  His 
Heart  growing  heavy  with  righteous  displeasure, 

He  came,  in  His  love,  to  the  rescue  of  Willis. 

Pity?    Christ  pity  us  all  in  our  little, 

Ignoble,  half-hearted,  illiberal  creeds — 
Our  petty  beliefs  that  are  bloodless  and  brittle, 


The  Lute  of  Life  37 

That  sway  in  the  storm  and  are  shivered  like  reeds ; 
One  dies — and  a  craven  confession  may  cover 

A  life  whose  belittling  hypocrisies  chill  us, — 
And,  thinking-  the  whole  thing  over  and  over, 

I  would  take  my  chance  with  my  boy-friend  Willis. 


WHEN  I  SHALL  MEET  MY  YOUTH  AGAIN 

Sometime — I  know  not  how  nor  when — 
This  weary  road  I  journey  on 
Will  lead  thro'  lands  that  I  have  known, 
And  I  shall  meet  my  youth  again, — 
Thro'  some  old  wood  my  childhood  knew 
The  road,  at  length,  will  bring  to  view 
A  cottage  in  a  lonely  glen, 
Where  I  shall  meet  my  youth  again. 

Where  I  shall  greet  beside  the  gate 

A  boy  whose  un  forgotten  face  „ 

Will  glad  me  with  its  tender  grace 
Of  artless  life  and  love  elate; — 
My  soul  will  sparkle  in  his  gaze 
The  while  his  sunburnt  hand  I  raise 
Against  my  lips  in  silence,  then, 
When  I  shall  meet  my  youth  again. 

And  yet  the  lad  of  whom  I  dream 
May  know  me  not,  for  I  shall  be 
To  him  a  deep'ning  mystery 
Of  things  that  are  and  things  that  seem; 
From  these  old  scars  of  time  and  toil 
His  heart,  albeit,  may  recoil, 
As  children's  often  do  from  men, 
When  I  shall  meet  my  youth  again. 

But  he  shall  know  me,  at  the  last, 
And  creep  into  my  arms,  and  weep, 
As  I  shall  lull  his  lids  to  sleep 


38  The  Lute  of  Life 


With  stories  of  the  changed  past; 
And  ere  the  morning  breaks  upon 
Us  twain,  our  souls  shall  be  as  one, 
And  time  shall  breathe  a  soft  "amen," 
When  I  shall  meet  my  youth  again. 


A  THOUGHT 

What  if  some  one  of  the  human  race 

Were  living,  who  saw  Christ  face  to  face — 

Who  saw  in  His  eyes  the  tender  shine 

Of  a  love  so  lowly,  yet  so  divine ; 

Who  saw  the  toss  of  His  chestnut  hair 

In  curls  that  fondled  His  forehead  fair; 

Whose  eyes  for  a  moment  found  repose 

On  the  shoulders  bent  with  the  wide  world's  woes  ; 

Who  caught  one  tone  of  the  voice  that  gave 

Hope  to  the  heart  and  life  to  the  grave ; — 

If  one  like  this  on  the  earth  were  found, 

Think  of  the  throngs  that  would  gird  him  round, 

Eager  to  cull  from  his  lips  one  word 

That  he  from  the  lips  of  the  Lord  had  heard. 


BEHIND  THE  VEIL 

As  a  painter  walked  forth  in  the  dawn,  half-adream, 

He  saw  the  green  splendor  of  sumptuous  trees 
Waving  under  the  winds,  and  his  eyes  drank  the  gleam 

Of  the  blue  vagues  above  him  like  pendulous  seas; 
The  world  was  a  picture,  so  fair  and  so  fine 

That  the  artist  beheld  it  with  marveling  eyes, — 
But  he  saw  not  the  hand  of  the  Painter  divine, 

Who  stood  at  His  easel,  just  back  of  the  skies. 

A  sculptor  once  strolled  'mid  the  mountains,  entranced, 
Untongued,  in  a  tremulous  transport  of  Art, 

As  he  scanned  the  grim  turrets  of  granite  that  glanced 
On  the  rim  of  the  sun,  standing  stark  and  apart; 


The  Lute  of  Life 39 

His  soul  sipped  the  scene  till  it  reeled  with  despair, 
Till  his  chisel  fell  dulled  on  the  stones  at  his  feet, — 

But  he  saw  not  the  Sculptor,  half-hid  on  the  stair, 
And  he  heard  not  the  mallet  of  God  as  it  beat. 

In  fancy  I  saw  a  musician  enchained 

In  a  tangle  of  melodies,  tremblingly  twirled 
From  the  throats  of  the  throstles,   like  symphonies 
strained 

From  the  harps  of  old  minstrels,  and  blown  down 

the  world; 
He  stood  in  the  dawning,  deliriously  dazed, 

And  as  still  as  a  bronze, — but  he  saw  not  all, 
The  swinging  baton  that  the   Master   upraised 

At  the  Fount  of  all  music,  just  over  the  wall. 

I  saw,  in  my  vision,  a  poet  who  wrote 

With  a  pencil  of  light,  from  a  heart  that  was  fraught 
With  the  fervor  of  passion, — whose  soul  was  afloat 

On  a  palpitant  ocean  of  fancy  and  thought ; 
His  lays  by  the  lips  of  all  lands  were  rehearsed 

Till  they  set  the  slow  pulse  of  the  peoples  a-quiver, — 
But  he  saw  not  the  face  of  the  Poet  who  first 

Gave  the  song  to  the  sea  and  the  rhyme  to  the  river. 


A  DREAM  OF  DAYS 

— YESTERDAY — 

When  the  wind  is  driving  hard  against  the  pane, 
And  the  fading  firelight  flickers  on  the  floor, 

There  floateth  down  the  night  a  faint  refrain 
From  the  dear  delightful  days  that  are  no  more. 
O  the  happy,  happy  days! 
When  the  world  was  all  ablaze 
With  the  beauty  of  the  morning 
Trailing  up  the  winding  ways — 
When  the  bluebird  warbled  nigh, 
And  the  lark  went  up  the  sky 


40  The  Lute  of  Life 

Like  an  echo  of  the  luting 
Of  an  angel  sweeping  by. 

— TO-DAY — 

But  a  fly  is  in  the*  foaming  flask  we  drain, 

And  a  flaw  is  in  the  flute  forevermore, 
And  the  happy  dreams,  to-night,  that  haunt  the  brain 
Are  silenced  by  a  fear  that  moves  before. 

O  the  night  so  long  and  lone — 

Not  an  echo— not  a  tone — 

Not  a  star  to  cleave  the  darkness, 

Nor  a  song  to  still  the  moan 

Of  the  soul  in  its  unrest, 

In  its  vain  and  voiceless  quest 

For  the  unreturning  beauty 

Of  a  hope  it  once  caressed! 

— TO-MORROW — 

Yet  life,  with  all  its  mystery  and  pain, 
Remaineth  sweet  if  love  be  at  the  core ; 
And  even  to  the  heart  that  pleads  in  vain, 

A  time  will  come  when  it  shall  ache  no  more. 

A  day  will  dawn  at  last 

When  no  cloud  shall  overcast 

The  tenderness  and  splendor 

Of  the  passion  of  the  past ; 

And  the  patient  hearts  that  wait 

In  silence  at  the  gate, 

Will  feel  upon  their  longing  lips 

The  kiss  of  love,  tho'  late. 


HER  FEET  ON  THE  FENDER 

The  winter  blew  chill,  but  the  night  it  was  white 
As  the  satiny  sheen  of  the  hand  that  I  crushed, 

As  we  sat  where  the  bright  chandelier  shed  its  light 
On  her  billowy  curtains  and  ottoman  plushed; 


The  Lute  of  Life  41 

It  was  middle  December  outside,  but  I  swear 

I  could  hear  the  birds  sing,  and  could   feel  the 
spring's  splendor 

Blown  into  my  blood  from  her  tropical  hair, 
As  she  teetered  her  tender  white  feet  on  the  fender. 

We  are  wed, — and  the  days  they  have  sped  overhead 

Like  the  half-finished  dreams  of  a  lover  who  lies 
In  the  cool  summer  night,  when  the  planets  burn  red 

Thro'  the  lattice  that  shadows  his  slumberless  eyes ; — 
It  is  middle  December, — the  chandelier  glows, 

And  I  fall  to  the  floor  in  most  servile  surrender, — 
And  she? — Well,  I  tickle  her  baby's  pink  toes, 

As  she  smilingly  sews,  with  her  feet  on  the  fender. 

OUT  ON  THE  FARM 

A  home  in  the  country !  what  care  I 

For  the  tossing  town  with  its  madd'ning  din, 
Where  the  grinding  wheels  of  the  world  go  by, 

And  the  soul  grows  sick  as  the  crowds  crush  in; 
Better  the  lanes  where  the  linnets  be, 

And  the  brown  bees  drone  in  the  dewy  thyme; 
Where  the  wild-bird  flutes  on  the  tulip-tree, 

And  the  garnet  bells  of  the  pawpaws  chime. 

A  home  in  the  country!    Never  for  me 

The  flash  of  fashion,  and  feverish  beat 
Of  the  trampling  masses  my  sad  eyes  see 

Pulsing  forever  from  street  to  street ; — 
Better  the  woods  where  the  waters  meet, 

And  the  grass  grows  cool  by  the  shelvy  shore, — 
Where  the  wild-flowers  blush  in  their  dim  retreat, 

And  the  clamor  of  town  is  heard  no  more. 

A  home  in  the  country,  blessed  and  sweet 

From  the  hand  of  God,  where  the  shade  and  shine 

Play  all  day  long  in  the  rippling  wheat, 

And  the  berries  glow  in  the  grass,  like  wine ; 


42  The  Lute  of  Life 


Never  a  home  in  the  town  be  mine, 

'Mid  the  stir  and  whir,  and  the  gaud  and  glare,- 
Give  me  the  farm  where  the  clovered  kine 

Are  heard  on  the  hill, — and  the  world  is  fair. 


MY  FRIENDS 
(AT  A  BANQUET) 

God  bless  my  friends !  my  heart  to-night 

Is  pulsing  with  a  strange  delight — 

Is  reeling  'midst  the  rare  perfume 

Of  some  dim  Eden,  brimmed  with  bloom. 

My  fancies  fail — my  senses  swim — 

My  hot  blood  to  its  urn  descends; 
I  can  but  lift  a  hand  to  Him, 

And  thankful  say,  "God  bless  my  friends!" 

Some  strange  narcotic  dulls  my  brain, 

Some  spirit-finger  weaves  a  chain 

Of  silence  on  my  lips,  and  I, 

Made  blind  with  kindness,  can  but  sigh, 

And,  like  the  Paraclete  in  prayer, 

Sit  speechless,  as  my  soul  ascends 
The  starry  stairway  of  the  air 

With  this  appeal,  "God  bless  my  friends!" 

As  sunlight  unto  life  is,  and 
As  rain  is  to  an  arid  land — 
As  is  a  rock's  cool  shadow  in 
The  desert  to  the  Bedouin, 
So  to  the  soul  the  timely  touch 

Of  loving  hands,  whose  largess  lends     * 
To  every  crippled  heart  a  crutch, 

And  prompts  the  plea,  "God  bless  my  friends !" 

However  winds  blow  down  the  world, 

And  loves  be  wrecked,  and  fortunes  whirled 

In  hopeless  havoc,  still  there  lies 


The  Lute  of  Life  43 


In  life  an  untrod  Paradise 

For  every  weary,  toil-worn  wight, 

Whose  aching  heart,  as  on  he  trends, 
Can  blend  a  prayer  with  mine  to-night, 

And  fondly  say,  "God  bless  my  friends!' 


MY  SCHOOL-MATE,  LITTLE  GOGGLES 

I  called  her  Little  Goggles  in  those  academic  days 
That  glimmer  in  my  fancy  as  my  recollection  strays 
To  the  happy-hearted  winters  of  the  time  so  long  ago, 
When  we  wrote  our  Latin  lessons  with  a  cutter  in  the 

snow, 

When  the  problems  of  geometry  were  demonstrated  in 
The  pretty  curves  and  angles  of  her  dainty  mouth  and 

chin  ; 

O  the  slender  little  beauty !  I  can  feel  her  tender  hand 
Reaching  out  across  the  darkness  to  the  lone  years 

where  I  stand. 

Little  Goggles  was  the  text-book  that  I  studied  all  the 

while, 

Her  laughter  was  my  logic,  and  my  rheteoric  her  smile ; 
And  all  that  my  astronomy  could  teach  about  the  skies 
Was  far  more  plainly  written  in  the  planets  of  her 

eyes  ;— 

We  crossed  the  yellow  Tiber  every  evening  into  Rome 
On  a  bridge  of  cushioned  rockers,  in  her  cozy  little 

home ; 

And  the  old  romantic  story  of  the  Serpent  of  the  Nile 
My  fancy  comprehended  in  the  fervor  of  her  smile. 

Little  Goggles !  Little  Goggles !  do  you  ever  think  of 

me 
When  the  wind  is  in  the  maple  and  the  winter  's  o'er 

the  lea? 
Little  Goggles — Little  Goggles — in  the  midnight  of  the 

years 


44  The  Lute  of  Life 


I  can  see  your  blue  eyes  dancing  through  the  dripping 

of  my  tears; 

And  often  in  my  solitude  I  wonder  where  you  are, 
And  marvel  are  you  happy,  as  I  fondle  my  guitar, 
And  sink  into  the  rocker  of  my  desolated  home, 
And  cross  again  the  Tiber  of  old  memories  to  Rome. 


MANHOOD'S  MEASURE 

The  man  who  loves  his  fellow-man, 
And  winds  a  willing  arm  about 
His  brother  when  the  storms  are  out, 

And  lends  him  all  the  help  he  can — 
No  matter  what  may  be  his  creed, 
A  kind  God  knights  him  for  the  deed. 

The  man,  however  scorned  and  poor, 
Who  bares  his  arm  for  truth,  and  breaks 
A  lance  for  crippled  justice,  shakes 

A  shower  of  good  from  shore  to  shore, — 
And  Heaven,  unfolding,  gilds  with  grace 
The  swart  lines  of  his  sturdy  face. 

However  lowly  be  his  guise, 
The  man  who  finds  it  in  his  breast 
To  brave  the  worst  and  hope  the  best, 

Is  nobly  poised,  and  in  him  lies 
The  bursting  germ  whose  bloom  shall  be 
The  badge  of  immortality. 


A  LEGEND  BEAUTIFUL 

'Twas  thus  the  Dervish  spake:     "Upon  our  right 
There  stands  unseen  an  angel  with  a  pen, 
Who  notes  down  each  good  deed  of  ours,  and  then 

Seals  it  with  kisses  in  the  Master's  sight. 

Upon  our  left  a  sister-angel  sweet 
Keeps  daily  record  of  each  evil  act, 


The  Lute  of  Life 45 

But,  great  with  love,  folds  not  the  mournful  sheet 

Till  deepest  midnight,  when,  if,  conscience-racked, 
We  lift  to  Allah  our  repentant  hands, 
She  smiles  and  blots  the  record  where  she  stands; 
But  if  we  seek  not  pardon  for  our  sin, 
She  seals  it  with  a  tear,  and  hands  it  in." 


THE  GREEN  LANES  OF  THE  PAST* 

I  care  not  to  gaze  at  the  years  coming  on, 

Thick-mantled  in  mist  and  with  doubts  overcast, 
But  would  rather  stray  back  to  the  days  that  are  gone, 

Along  the  green  lanes  of  the  past — 
Across  the  cool  meadows  of  memory,  where 

The  birds  ever  sing,  and  the  wild  waters  fall, 
And  the  laughter  of  children  is  borne  on  the  air, 

And  love  shineth  over  it  all. 

The  painter  may  picture  the  future  in  dyes 

That  rival  the  rose  and  the  rainbow,  and  still 
It  may  leave  him  at  last  but  a  guerdon  of  sighs, 

And  a  hope  that  it  failed  to  fulfill; 
The  poet  may  sing  of  the  splendors  supreme 

Of  the  opulent  ages,  far-coming  and  vast — 
I  question  him  not,  yet  I  ask  but  to  dream 

On  the  old  quiet  hills  of  the  past. 

The  past  is  my  own — there  is  nothing  uncertain 

In  all  its  wide  range,  and  my  title  is  clear — 
While  the  future,  at  best,  is  a  face  on  the  curtain. 

That  fades  as  my  feet  draweth  near ; 
Then  give  me  the  blossoms,  the  birds  and  the  bowers, 

And  every  loved  scene  where  my  soul  clingeth  fast, 
Like  an  evergreen  ivy  that  mantles  the  towers 

And  feeds  on  the  dews  of  the  past. 

*  By  permission  of  the  Ladies'  Home  Journal.    Copyright,  The  Curtis 
Publishing  Company. 


46  The  Lute  of  Life 


DECORATION  DAY 

The  little  green  billows  keep  rolling  away, 

Keep  rolling  away  with  the  years ; 
And  to-day  as  we  stand  on  the  summit  of  May, 

We  are  touched  with  the  scene  that  appears ; 
Where  once  the  blue  column  kept  soldierly  pace, 

Athrill  to  the  throb  of  the  drum, 
A  few  weary  vet'rans  now  limp  into  place 

With  limbs  that  are  feeble  and  numb. 

Their  looks  are  more  eloquent  far  than  their  speech, 

As  they  totter  along  in  the  sun, 
And  we  almost  can  read  in  the  bearing  of  each 

A  wish  that  the  journey  was  done, — 
That  the  journey  was  done,  and  the  gateway  was 
passed 

That  leads  to  their  comrades  who  lie 
In  their  hammocks  of  fame,  sleeping  sweetly  at  last, 

Where  no  clamor  of  battle  is  nigh. 

The  earth  may  resound  with  the  coming  of  wars, 

The  bugles  be  blown  as  of  yore, 
But  these  shall  lie  down  with  their  glory  and  scars, 

And  dream  of  the  carnage  no  more ; 
In  their  "windowless  palaces,"  under  the  vine, 

They  shall  slumber  the  dim  ages  through, 
Till  the  trumpet  is  loosed  by  the  Master  Divine 

And  their  long-broken  march  they  renew. 

Then  up  thro'  the  laneways  of  light  they  will  go 

To  the  cool,  shady  meadows  that  lie 
Where  the  harpers  are  heard,  and  the  asphodels  blow, 

And  the  River  of  Life  floweth  by; 
Where  the  tents  of  eternity  glitter  and  gleam 

In  the  hush  of  the  amaranth  grove, 
And  the  world  drifts  away  like  a  desolate  dream, 

From  the  luminous  Kingdom  of  Love. 


The  Lute  of  Life  47 


The  little  green  billows  keep  rolling  away 

O'er  the  ocean  of  grasses  and  leaves, 
And  we  follow  them  outward  and  onward,  each  May, 

With  the  chaplets  that  Memory  weaves; 
But  the  time  it  will  come,  as  the  swift  seasons  roll, 

When  one  certain  grave  with  its  flowers, 
Forever  and  ever  must  point  to  the  goal 

Where  sleeps  the  last  hero  of  ours. 


THE  NIGHT  YOU  QUOTED  BURNS  TO  ME 

The  winds  of  early  autumn  blew 
Across  the  midnight.    Overhead 
A  wild  moon  up  the  heavens  fled, 

And  cut  the  sable  vault  in  two ; 

We  heard  the  river  lap  and  flow, 
We  turned  our  poet-fancies  free — 

My  heart  did  all  its  cares  forego, 
The  night  you  quoted  Burns  to  me. 

A  gray  owl  from  a  blasted  limb 

Dropped  down  the  dark  and  blundered  by, 

As  if  a  fiend  with  flaming  eye 
Fast- followed  in  pursuit  of  him; 
Ah,  then  you  crooned  beneath  the  moon 

A  ditty  weird  as  weird  could  be — 
And  Tarn  O'Shanter  crossed  the  Doon, 

The  night  you  quoted  Burns  to  me. 

We  praised  the  "Lass  o'  Ballochmyle," 
We  talked  of  Mary,  loved  and  lost, 
Until  our  spirits  touched  and  crossed, 

And  melted  into  tears,  the  while; 

We  drank  to  "Nell,"  and  "Bonnie  Jean," 
To  "Chloris,"  and  the  "Banks  o'  Cree,"— 

Blest  hour!  I  keep  its  memory  green, 
The  night  you  quoted  Burns  to  me. 


48 The  Lute  of  Life 

The  Wabash  hills  their  heads  low  hung, 
As  floating  up  their  winding  ways 
They  caught  the  sound  of  "Logan  Braes," 

And  heard  "Sweet  Afton's"  glory  sung; 

And  loud  the  Wabash  did  deplore 
That  no  brave  poet-voice  had  she 

To  lend  her  fame  forevermore, 

The  night  you  quoted  Burns  to  me. 

O  dear,  delightful  autumn  night, 

Forever  gone  beyond  recall! 

Comrade,  the  clouds  are  over  all, 
And  you — you  've  vanished  from  my  sight ; 
Still  flows  the  river  as  of  yore, 

The  owl  still  haunts  the  lonely  tree, 
And  I  '11  forget,  ah,  nevermore, 

The  night  you  quoted  Burns  to  me. 


IN  KANSAS-TOWN 

(ON  REVISITING  THE  PRAIRIE  VIU,AGE) 

As  I  came  into  Kansas-town, 

I  saw  the  long,  green  slopes  of  corn 

Flash  in  the  early  light  of  morn 
Like  gems  upon  a  monarch's  crown ; 
Across  the  breezy  fields  I  heard 

A  farm-boy  singing,  up  and  down, 
A  ballad  blithe  as  any  bird, — 

As  I  came  into  Kansas-town. 

The  warm  black  soil — the  velvet  sod — 

The  wild-bird's  song — the  plowman's  voice — 

"And  this,"  I  said,  "is  Illinois, 
The  last  and  fairest  land  of  God — 
The  home  of  happy  hearts  and  free, 

Where  Care,  at  last,  forgets  to  frown" — 
Ah,  sweet  the  dream  that  haunted  me 

As  I  came  into  Kansas-town! 


The  Lute  of  Life  49 

As  I  came  into  Kansas-town, 

I  thought  of  one  dear  girl  whose  feet 

Once  strolled  along  its  happy  street, 
Her  gold  hair  gleaming  like  a  crown, 
Who  grew  to  be  a  gracious  wife, — 

Dear  soul !  and  now  the  stars  look  down 
Upon  her  grave.     .     .     .     Light  of  my  life, 

How  sweet  it  was  in  Kansas-town! 

The  years  may  come,  the  years  may  go, 
And  I,  God  knows,  may  wander  far — 
May  sleep  beneath  some  alien  star, 

And  hear  no  more  the  Ambraw  flow; 

Yet  here  my  aching  heart  shall  cling 

Through  all  the  seasons,  bright  or  brown, 

As  long  as  any  bird  shall  sing, 
Or  blossom  blow,  in  Kansas-town. 


A  DREAM  OF  THE  END  OF  EVERYTHING 

O  the  wind — the  wind  in  the  trees ! 

O  the  grasses  that  wave  and  toss ! 
And,  O,  the  moon  floating  over  these, 

Muffled  with  clouds  so  finer  than  floss ! 
Read  us  the  meaning  of  all  of  this — 

The  wild  star's  flight — the  whir  of  a  wing, — 
Hint  us  the  truth,  whatever  it  is, 

In  a  dream  of  the  end  of  everything. 

O  the  rush  and  the  crowd  of  life, 

And,  O,  the  quiet  that  comes  at  last ! 
We  sicken  and  swoon  in  the  ceaseless  strife 

Of  speculations  so  vain  and  vast ; — 
Spell  us  the  lesson  that  underlies 

The  fears  and  the  tears  that  strike  and  sting- 
Read  us  the  riddle  and  make  us  wise 

With  a  dream  of  the  end  of  everything. 

4 


50  The  Lute  of  Life 

One  man  smiles  and  another  sighs, 

The  lone  sea  sobs  and  the  river  sings, 
And  win  if  we  will  the  world's  first  prize, 

Brief  at  best  is  the  bliss  it  brings ; 
For  time  effaces  both  foul  and  fair, 

All  is  alike  with  slave  or  king; 
And  the  one  glad  gift  we  fain  would  share 

Is  a  dream  of  the  end  of  everything. 

War  in  the  East  and  war  in  the  West, 

Battleships  building  and  muster  of  men — 
So  the  long  century  goes  to  its  rest, 

Repeating  the  same  sad  story  again ; 
Friends  to-day,  and  to-morrow  foes, — 

Thus  does  the  pendulum  swing  and  swing  ;- 
Break,  O  light,  and  the  truth  disclose, 

In  a  dream  of  the  end  of  everything. 


ONCE  ON  A  TIME 

'Once  on  a  time," — 
How  fondly  falls  that  phrase 

Upon  our  fancy,  like  a  far-off  chime 
Of  half-heard  bells,  in  some  forgotten  clime, 
Pealed  from  the  Kingdom  of  Dead  Yesterdays. 
'Once  on  a  time," — 
The  tale  we  loved,  always 

Began  just  so,  and  every  fairy  rhyme 

Our  mothers  crooned  commenced,  "Once  on 

time," 
And  ended  with  a  burst  of  boyish  praise. 

As  one  who,  in  a  lonely  twilight-land, 
Is  startled  by  the  wraith  of  some  loved  voice 
Long  since  that  joined  the  silences  sublime, — 
So  I,  amidst  the  shadows  where  I  stand, 
Ring'd  with  dim  dreams  of  unreturning  joys, 
Awaken  at  the  words, 

"Once  on  a  time." 


The  Lute  of  Life  51 


YOUNG  EGYPT'S*  SONG  TO  THE  NORTH 

Come  down,  come  down  to  the  orchard-lands 

That  lie  to  the  south, — come  down  and  see 
The  beautiful  Egypt  whose  lifted  hands 

Shall  hold  the  fruit  of  the  years  to  be; 
Come  down  to  the  fields  where  the  apples  shine 

Like  clustered  stars,  and  the  heart  grows  light 
Quaffing  the  odorous  winds  like  wine, 

In  the  drowsy  hush  of  the  autumn  night. 

O  who  would  live  in  the  corn-lands  cold 

Of.  the  treeless  North,  when  a  soil  like  this 
Is  coining  its  heart  into  globes  of  gold 

And  holding  them  up  for  the  sun  to  kiss ; — 
Or  who  would  live  in  the  barren  East, 

Or  who  to  the  deserts  west  would  go, 
When  Nature  is  spreading  the  richest  feast, 

Here,  that  her  bountiful  hands  can  show? 

We  blush  no  more  at  your  Northern  scorn, 

But  fair  in  your  face  we  can  snap  our  thumbs, 
And  over  against  your  boasted  corn 

Can  pile  our  peaches  and  pears  and  plums ; 
Go  build,  if  you  will,  your  palace  of  maize 

High  in  the  light  of  the  cold  north  sun, 
But  think  of  the  Pyramid  we  shall  raise 

Of  golden  apples,  piled  one  by  one. 

What  is  a  king  on  a  crumbling  throne, 

With  a  painted  queen  and  a  pedigree, 
When  matched  with  the  man  who  dreams  alone 

On  the  emerald  plush,  'neath  his  apple-tree? 
The  Lord,  He  loveth  all  men,  and  so 

Would  lead  their  feet  into  ways  divine, 
But  He  counteth  him  best  who  toils  below 

In  the  peaceful  shade  of  the  Noble  Vine. 


' "  Egypt  "  is  the  popular  designation  for  Southern  Illinois. 


52 The  Lute  of  Life 

Then  come  to  the  South  where  the  vineyards  are 

And  the  prodigal  bloom  of  the  orchard  burns 
Against  the  blue,  like  a  rising  star, 

Wherever  the  raptured  vision  turns; 
Come  down  where  the  younger  Egypt  stands, 

Like  a  princess  under  her  apple-tree, 
Holding  aloft  in  her  plenished  hands 

The  gift  of  the  centuries  yet  to  be. 


A  PROFILE  OF  FALL 

Under  the  tree  the  ladder  leans 

On  the  branches  gray  and  old, — 
And,  balanced  above,  the  gleaner  gleans 

The  glittering  spheres  of  gold ; 
While  pyramids  brighter  than  maiden's  eyes, 
In  the  leafy  aisles  of  the  orchard  rise. 

Rambo,  Pippin,  and  Limbertwig, 

Belleflovver,  Russet,  and  Romanite, 
Dangling  high  on  the  slender  sprig, 

Gleam  with  a  quivering  rainbow  light, — 
And  the  old  man  nodding  beneath  the  trees, 
Dreams  of  the  times  when  he  planted  these. 

When  a  blue-eyed  bride  was  at  his  side, 

In  the  merry  summer  weather, 
And  life  was  fair  as  the  apples  there, 

That  cling  to  the  bough  together ; — 
But  a  score  of  springs  have  showered  their  bloom 
Where  the  sunlight  lies  on  the  good  wife's  tomb. 

With  a  greedy  mouth  the  cider-mill 

Is  craunching  away  in  the  grove, — 
Its  lips  adrip  with  an  amber  rill 

As  pure  as  the  wine  of  Jove ; 
And  the  bees  and  the  nut-brown  boys  are  there, 
To  sip  the  sweets  and  the  sport  to  share. 


The  Lute  of  Life  53 

The  chestnut  brown  in  a  sheath  of  spears 

On  the  fading  hillside  lies, 
And  sleeps  till  the  sunlight  bursts  its  burrs 

And  shakes  the  night  from  its  eyes ; 
And  the  walnut  cloaked  in  Lincoln-green, 
Dreams  of  a  winter  night,  I  ween. 

Up  in  the  old  oak's  airy  hall 

The  squirrel  heaps  his  store, 
In  spite  of  the  deadly  rifle-ball 

That  rings  at  his  chamber-door, — 
A  merry  fellow  and  full  of  glee 
Is  the  fur-clad  knight  of  the  hollow  tree. 

All  day  long  in  his  lampless  log 

The  lonesome  rabbit  lies, 
Peeking  at  every  passing  dog 

With  big  sardonic  eyes, — 
And  wondering  to  himself,  no  doubt, 
If  ever  the  dog  will  find  him  out. 

The  feathered  bards  have  sheathed  their  quills, 

And  closed  each  tuneful  mouth, 
And  flown  like  sunshine  out  of  the  hills 

To  summer-lands  of  the  South ; 
And  we  who  sit  in  the  shade  and  write, 
Sigh  to  them  all,  as  they  wing  their  flight. 


WALT  WHITMAN 

Builder  of  numbers  vast  and  intricate! 

No  feeble  fantasies  are  born  of  thee; 

Thy  poems  are  as  potent  as  the  sea 
Of  human  passion  beating  at  the  gate 
Of  mortal  being. — Man  of  the  low  estate — 

Forth  leaping  in  thy  soul's  necessity, 

Like  to  some  tethered  giant  tearing  free 
The  galling  fetters  of  ignoble  fate! 


54 The  Lute  of  Life 

Gray  bard !  them  seem'st  a  relic  of  the  days 

When  stalwart  Shakespeare  and  Ben  Jonson  trod 
The  wines  of  wisdom  from  the  vats  of  God, 

And  drank  the  round  world's  undiluted  praise; 
And  yet  thou  art  a  target  for  the  scorn 
Of  these,  the  very  days  thou  dost  adorn. 


CALIFORNIA 

Into  the  West  the  world  is  going — 

The  rose-red  West  where  the  mountains  are, 
And  the  stars  dip  low,  and  the  winds  are  blowing 

The  perfumed  sails  to  the  ports  afar; 
Where  the  swishing  skirts  of  the  warm  Pacific 

Are  stitched  with  silver  and  braided  with  gold—- 
Where a  sunset  coast  and  a  clime  mellific 

Still  dimple  our  dreams  as  in  days  of  old. 

Into  the  West  the  world  is  gliding — 

The  marvelous  West,  where  the  Titans  went 
And  builded  homes  for  the  first  abiding 

Of  Freedom's  feet,  in  the  Occident; 
Where  the  Argonauts,  with  the  later  Jason, 

Set  sail  in  search  of  the  Golden  Fleece, 
And  won  at  last  as  proud  a  place  on 

History's  page  as  the  men  of  Greece. 

Into  the  West  the  world  is  rushing — 

The  wonderful  West,  where  the  orange  shines, 
And  the  citron  burns,  and  the  grapes  are  blushing 

In  passionate  suns  on  a  million  vines ; 
Where  orchards  reek  with  a  ruddy  splendor 

In  valleys  fair  as  the  fabled  East, 
And  Nature  swoons  in  a  soft  surrender 

Of  all  things  sweet  for  the  world's  last  feast. 

Into  the  West  the  world  is  turning — 
The  opulent  West,  where  the  heart  and  eye 


The  Lute  of  Life  55 

Are  fed  with  the  dreams  of  a  long  sojourning, 
There,  in  the  hush  of  the  amber  sky ; 

Where  never  the  thunder  is  heard,  and  never 
The  shock  of  a  storm  the  whole  year  long — 

And  life  in  the  sunset-land  forever 
Is  only  the  pulse  of  an  endless  song. 


THE  OLD  COUNTRY  ROAD* 

Where  did  it  come  from,  where  did  it  go? 
That  was  the  question  that  puzzled  us  so 
As  we  waded  the  dust  of  the  highway  that  flowed 
By  the  farm,  like  a  river — the  old  country  road. 

We  stood  with  our  hair  sticking  up  thro'  the  crown 
Of  our  hats,  as  the  people  went  up  and  went  down, 
And  we  wished  in  our  hearts,  as  our  eyes  fairly  glowed, 
We  could  find  where  it  came  from — the  old  country 
road. 

We  remember  the  peddler  who  came  with  his  pack 
Adown  the  old  highway,  and  never  went  back ; 
And  we  wondered  what  things  he  had  seen  as  he  strode 
From  some  fabulous  place  up  the  old  country  road. 

We  remember  the  stage-driver's  look  of  delight, 
And  the  crack  of  his  whip  as  he  whirled  into  sight, 
And  we  thought  we  could  read  in  each  glance  he  be- 
stowed 
A  tale  of  strange  life  up  the  old  country  road. 

The  movers  came  by  like  a  ship  in  full  sail, 
With  a  rudder  behind  in  the  shape  of  a  pail — 
With  a  rollicking  crew,  and  a  cow  that  was  towed 
With  a  rope  on  her  horns,  down  the  old  country  road. 

*  By  permission  of  the  Ladies'  Home  Journal.    Copyright,  The  Curtis 
Publishing  Company. 


56 The  Lute  of  Life 

And  the  gypsies — how  well  we  remember  the  week 
They  camped  by  the  old  covered  bridge,  on  the  creek — 
How  the  neighbors  quit  work,  and  the  crops  were  un- 

hoed, 
Till  the  wagons  drove  off  down  the  old  country  road. 

Oh,  the  top  of  the  hill  was  the  rim  of  the  world, 
And  the  dust  of  the  summer  that  over  it  curled 
Was  the  curtain  that  hid  from  our  sight  the  abode 
Of  the  fairies  that  lived  up  the  old  country  road. 

The  old  country  road!     I  can  see  it  still  flow 
Down  the  hill  of  my  dreams,  as  it  did  long  ago, 
And  I  wish  even  now  I  could  lay  off  my  load 
And  rest  by  the  side  of  that  old  country  road. 


"THEY  HAD  NO  POET  AND  SO  THEY  DIED" 

In  the  dim  waste  lands  of  the  Orient  stands 

The  wreck  of  a  race  so  old  and  vast 
That  the  grayest  legend  can  not  lay  hands 

On  a  single  fact  of  its  tongueless  past; 
Not  even  the  red  gold  crown  of  a  king, 

Nor  a  warrior's  shield,  nor  aught  beside, 
Can  history  out  of  the  ruins  wring, — 

They  had  no  poet  and  so  they  died. 

Babel  and  Nineveh,  what  are  they 

But  feeble  hints  of  a  passing  power 
That  over  the  populous  East  held  sway, 

In  a  dream  of  pomp,  for  a  paltry  hour? 
A  toppled  tower  and  a  shattered  stone, 

Where  the  satyrs  dance  and  the  dragons  hide, 
Is  all  that  is  known  of  the  glory  flown, — 

They  had  no  poet  and  so  they  died. 

Down  where  the  dolorous  Congo  slips, 
Like  a  tawny  snake,  thro'  the  torrid  clime, 


The  Lute  of  Life  57 

Man's  soul  has  slept  in  a  cold  eclipse 

On  the  world's  dark  rim  since  the  dawn  of  time ; 
And  if  ever  the  ancient  Nubians  wrought 

A  work  of  beauty  or  strength  or  pride,    . 
It  was  unrecorded  and  goes  for  naught, — 

They  had  no  poet  and  so  they  died. 

And  even  here,  in  the  sun-crowned  West, 

In  the  land  we  love,  in  the  vales  we  Ve  trod, 
Where  the  bleeding  palms  of  the  world  find  rest 

On  Freedom's  lap,  at  the  feet  of  God, — 
Even  here,  I  say,  ere  the  earth  waxed  old, 

A  race  Titanic  did  once  abide, 
But,  atH  their  story  is  left  untold, — 

They  had  no  poet  and  so  they  died. 

The  same  old  tale!  and  so  it  will  be, 

As  long  as  the  heavens  feed  the  stars, — 
As  long  as  the  tribes  of  men  shall  see 

A  lesser  glory  in  arts  than  wars ; 
And  so  let  us  live  and  labor  and  pray, 

As  down  we  glide  with  the  darkling  tide, 
That  never  a  singer  of  us  may  say, 

"They  had  no  poet  and  so  they  died." 


CHARLEY  GIBBS 

They  's  jes*  one  feller  in  the  world,  an'  only  one,  'at  I 

Hev  ketched  myse'f  a-envyin'  a  little  on  the  sly, 

An'  that  is  Charley  Gibbs, — an'  ef  ye  reelly  keer  to 

know 

Who  Charley  is,  an'  what  it  is  'at  agytates  me  so, 
F  11  tell  ye,  confidential-like,  an'  you  kin  then  decide 
The  p'int  'at  I  'm  a-drivin'  at,  an'  see  ef  I  hev  lied. 

W'y  this  'ere  Gibbs— this  Charley  Gibbs— 'at  I  'm  al- 

ludin'  to, 
'S  'bout  the  mos'  oncommon  kind  o'  chap  I  ever  knew ; 


58  _  The  Lute  of  Life  _ 

I  see'd  'im  when  a  baby,  an'  I  see  'im  when  a  man, 
An'  I  am  here  to  state  'at  he  is  built  upon  a  plan 
'At  differs  frum  the  av'rage  run  o'  people  nowadays, 
Not  in  his  looks,  so  overly-as-much,  ez  in  his  ways. 

This  Gibbs,  he  hain't  no  scholar  ner  philosopher,  an' 

yit 

I  've  got  an  idee  in  my  head,  an'  can't  git  rid  o'  it, 
That  he  's  about  the  shrewdes'  chap  'at  ever  hopped 

a  clod, 

Tho'  willin'  to  admit,  perhaps,  he  's  jes'  a  trifle  odd 
In  some  respec's,  ez  ever'  feller  is  who's  got  the  grit 
To  tackle  trouble  when  it  comes  an'  git  the  best  o'  it. 

Now,  take  an'  size  'im  up  an'  down,  —  I  mean  this 

Charley  Gibbs,  — 
An'  when  ye  've  measured  round  his  head,  w'y,  reach 

around  his  ribs 

An'  feel  his  happy  heart  a-beatin'  time  to  all  he  sings, 
Like  a  medder-lark  in  Aprile,  with  the  mornin'  on  its 

wings  — 

An'  warm  yer  han's  ag'in  his  blood  a-scamperin'  along 
Like  a  crick  ferever  flowin'  in  the  summer  uv  his  song. 

Plague-gone  it  !  when  he  wuz  a  boy,  an'  hed  the  rheu- 

matiz 
'At  twisted  into  awful  knots  them  spindlin'  shanks  o' 

his  — 
I  say,  when  them  afflictions  hed  the  youngster  in  the'r 


It  beat  the  dickens  how  the  fun  kep'  bilin'  frum  his  lip  ; 
W'y,  he  preached  a  braver  sermon  to  the  human  heart, 

I  guess, 
Than  any  healthy  parson  finds  it  easy  to  express. 

In  the  coldest  days  o'  winter,  when  us  fellers  round 

the  stove 
Is  a-findin'  fault  with  Providence,  an'  questionin'  His 

love, 


The  Lute  of  Life  59 

We  look  out  thro'  the  winder,  an'  we  hear  somebody 

sing, 

Like  a  jaybird  in  a  graveyard,  ez  much  ez  anything, — 
An'  blame  it  all !  it 's  allus  Gibbs,  an'  when  he  shuffles 

in 
Our  tribbelations  scatter  in  the  glitter  uv  his  grin. 

When  ever'body  on  the  street 's  a-growlin'  with  the 

"blues," 

Ye  '11  see  him  cuttin'  didoes  jes'  to  beat  the  very  Jews, 
Er  crackin'  jokes,  er  whisslin'  while  the  other  fellers 

whine, — 
It 's  jes'  his  way — this  Charley  Gibbs — he  's  one  in 

ninety-nine ; — 

He  could  n't  he'p  it  ef  he  tried !  fer  that  air  soul  o'  his 
Jes'  looks  upon  the  world  an'  smiles — an'  takes  it  ez 

it  is! 

They  say  it 's  no  oncommon  thing  fer  him,  when  comin' 

back 
With  his  shotgun  on  his  shoulder  an'  the  game  inside 

his  sack, 

To  leave  a  pra'ry-chicken  er  a  squirrel  in  the  door 
O'  some  neglected  widder  that  is  allus  sick  an'  pore, — 
An'  ez  he  heels  it  home  acrosst  the  hollers,  growin'  dim, 
The  prayers  o'  that  pore  womern  is  a-chasin'  after  him. 

He  's  got  no  eddication  much — his  purse  is  purty  slack, 
An'  the  clothes  is  mighty  common  he  's  a-wearin'  on 

his  back; 
He  hain't  got  much  religion  o'  the  kind  we  're  readin' 

uv, 
An'  yit  it  seems  to  me  'at  God  hez  soaked  him  in  His 

love, 

An'  left  him  fer  a  sign-board  by  the  road  we  hev  to  go, 
To  teach  us  joy  an'  patience  ez  we  journey  here  below. 

Now,  these  is  jes'  the  reasons,  ez  ye  understan',  'at  I 
Hev  ketched  myse'f  a-envyin'  this  feller  on  the  sly ; 


60 The  Lute  of  Life 

An'  ef  I  git  to  glory  first,  an'  find  no  Charley  there, 
I  '11  try  to  git  a  furlow  an'  come  down  the  golden 

stair, 
Jes'  to  see  'im  shake  his  foot  ag'in,  an'  hear  'is  latest 

joke, 
With  the  same  ol'  crowd  around  'im,  in  the  same  to- 

backer-smoke. 


A  SLIVER  FROM  THE  SPHINX 

Thou  broken  syllable  blown  far  a-west — 
Blown  hither  over  bleak,  abysmal  seas 
From  that  grim  mystery  of  mysteries 

That  frets  the  world,  still  keeping  unconfest 

The  secrets  of  the  aeons  in  her  breast! 
Time,  bending  there  upon  his  tired  knees 
By  that  dumb  wonder  of  dead  centuries, 

Covers  his  face,  appalled  at  his  own  jest! 

The  petty  generations  pause  and  pelt 

The  sleepless  brute  with  vain  importunings, 
Seeking  to  solve  the  riddle  as  she  stands ; 
Beneath  her  changeless  stare  the  ages  melt 

Like  snowflakes,  and  the  Simoon's  sullen  wings 
Muffle  her  silence  with  the  Libyan  sands. 


TO  JOAQUIN    MILLER 
(THE  POET  of  THE  SIERRAS) 

O  master  of  melodies,  piping  a-west, 
O  builder  of  numbers  delectably  new, 
In  truth,  I  would  rather  tip  hat  to  you 
Than  sit  at  a  banquet,  a  king's  sole  guest ; — 
To  you,  O  Miller,  who  sing  of  the  seas, 

Of  the  sunset-lands,  and  the  isles  that  lie 

In  the  desolate  wastes  by  the  dim  Andes — 

To  you,  brave  poet,  my  heart  draws  nigh. 


The  Lute  of  Life  61 


What  mystical,  marvelous  measures  are  yours, 
The  newest  and  truest  of  songs  yet  sung 
By  a  mountaineer  in  his  mother-tongue, 
So  daringly  free  and  so  full  of  force ! 
Like  a  sail  on  a  sea  that  sings  and  flows, 
My  fancy  floats  on  your  fluent  rhyme 
Till  the  fair  earth  seems  but  a  full-blown  rose, 
Plucked  from  a  dream,  in  the  rare  June  time. 

Whether  by  Shasta's  snows,  or  whether 
Adrift  in  Venice,  the  charm  still  clings 
To  the  one  sure  cadence  of  him  who  sings 
On  the  Oregon  hills  or  the  Highland  heather ; 
There  is  ever  a  note  we  can  not  mistake, 

As  strong  as  the  chime  of  the  sea,  or  strong 
As  the  fierce  staccatos  the  cascades  make, 
In  every  breath  of  your  wild,  sweet  song. 

Never  the  foot  of  a  man  shall  press 
The  dark  Sierras  in  days  to  come, 
But  his  pulse  will  leap,  as  his  proud  lips  hum 
Some  song  you  sang  in  the  wilderness ; 
As  long  as  the  river  shall  rhyme, — as  long 
As  Blanco  sits  with  her  feet  in  the  sea, — 
As  long  as  the  soul  is  aroused  with  song, 
Your  name  shall  bide  and  your  fame  shall  be. 


LOYALTY  OF  NATURE 

Where  are  they  now,  those  friends  of  mine, 
Who  shared  my  walnuts  and  my  wine? 
Across  the  threshold  of  my  door 
They  clasp  my  ready  hand  no  more. 

The  summer  blossoms  rise  and  fall, 
The  concords  purple  on  the  wall — 
The  robin  greets  the  breaking  day, 
And  from  the  locust  laughs  the  jay. 


62  The  Lute  of  Life 


The  leaves,  the  grasses,  and  the  grain, 
In  prompt  profusion  come  again — 
Even  the  wayside  weeds  we  spurn 
Respect  their  promise  and  return. 

Some  uninvited  instinct  sends 
To  cheer  us,  these  old-fashioned  friends, 
Whose  homely  sympathies  find  speech 
In  language  love  alone  can  teach. 

Man,  only,  of  the  countless  train 
Is  prone  to  prove  his  promise  vain; 
The  hollyhock,  the  humble-bee, 
Are  truer  to  their  pledge  than  he. 

No  more  I  murmur — every  day 

I  watch  the  winds  and  waters  play, 

Contented,  after  all,  to  find 

That  Nature's  ways,  at  least,  are  kind. 


THWARTED 

At  midnight,  in  an  autumn  desolate, 

Intent  to  do  an  injury,  I  arose 

And  called  upon  the  deadliest  of  my  foes, 
So  fearful  was  the  fury  of  my  hate. 
Malevolent  as  some  avenging  fate, 

I  sped  by  moonlight  thro'  the  garden-close, 

By  blighted  poppy  and  by  ruined  rose, 
And  stood  at  last  beside  my  victim's  gate. 

A  dim  light  burned  within — softly  and  still 
I  crept  close  up  against  the  window-sill, 
And  paused — then  peering  thro'  the  lighted  pane, 
I  reeled,  as  one  transfixed  at  heart  and  brain, 
For  there,  God's  mercy!  on  his  bended  knee, 
I  heard  my  foe — my  neighbor — pray  for  me! 


The  Lute  of  Life 63 

ON  EASY  STREET 

Do  you  ever  go  down  on  Easy  Street, 

In  the  lullaby  hush  of  the  day's  decline, 
When  everybody  you  chance  to  meet 

Has  a  languid  air  and  a  look  supine ; 

Where  even  the  lights  have  a  lazy  shine, 
And  the  breezes  drowse  as  they  idle  by, — 

Where  the  people  dally  and  drink  and  dine, 
From  dusk  till  the  noon  of  night  is  nigh? 

Dreamily  filters  the  starlight  through 

The  leaves  a-swoon  in  the  summer  heat; 
And  the  work-a-day  world  lies  out  of  view 

Beyond  the  Eden  of  Easy  Street ; 

Never  the  sound  of  dancing  feet 
Disturbs  the  languorous,  lulling  hours 

That  loll  in  the  lap  of  that  dim  retreat, 
As  soft  as  the  moon  on  the  terrace  flowers. 

Down  in  the  dusk  where  the  shadows  fall, 
Under  the  glimmer  of  twinkling  lights, 

We  hear  the  laughter,  and  that  is  all, 
Of  children  a-romp  in  the  rosy  nights, — 
Or  a  kiss,  mayhap,  when  a  lover  plights 

His  troth,  in  a  chrism  of  lips  that  meet, — 
Ah,  never  a  fancy  hath  finer  flights 

Than  mine,  in  its  journey  to  Easy  Street. 


A  RETROSPECT 

Come  back,  O  happy  days, 
With  your  mirth  and  roundelays — 
With  the  music  and  the  laughter 
Of  the  world's  old-fashioned  ways, 
When  our  hearts  were  full  and  free 
And  all  that  we  could  see 
Was  the  glad,  alluring  glimmer 
Of  the  golden  time  to  be. 


64 The  Lute  of  Life 

Come  back,  O  happy  springs, 
With  your  rainbows  and  your  wings, 
With  the  dewdrops  and  the  roses, 
And  the  unremembered  things 
That  led  our  feet  astray 
Through  the  fields,  and  far  away 
To  the  woodlands,  where  the  waters 
Warbled  seaward  all  the  day. 

Come  back,  O  summer-time, 
With  the  rapture  and  the  rhyme 
Of  the  songs  that  used  to  charm  us 
In  the  passion  of  our  prime, — 
When  the  murmur  of  the  dove 
On  the  drowsy  hills  above 
Was  mingled  with  the  melody 
Of  lips  we  used  to  love. 

Come  back,  O  autumn  brown, 
Shake  all  your  walnuts  down, 
And  call  unto  the  hills  again 
The  truants  of  the  town ; 
Bring  back  the  trailing  vine, 
Over-weighted  with  its  wine 
Tied  up  in  fairy  flagons 
For  the  thirsty  lips  like  mine. 

Come  back,  O  happy  nights, 

With  your  dreams  and  your  delights, 

And  all  the  mellow  lullabies 

That  memory  recites ; 

Turn  back  the  sliding  sand, 

And  restore  the  vanished  hand 

Whose  ever-tender  touches 

Love  alone  can  understand. 

Come  back,  come  back  to  me, 
O  my  youth,  and  let  us  be 
Companions  for  a  day  again, 


The  Lute  of  Life 65 

To  ramble  far  and  free 
Over  meadow-lands  we  knew 
When  the  winds  of  morning  blew, 
And  the  bird-wings  gleamed  above  us 
Like  the  blooms  we  wandered  through. 


ESAU 

The  saddest  chapters  in  the  Holy  Book 
Are  those  that  tell  of  Esau,  guileless,  poor, 
The  victim  of  the  wiles  of  her  who  bore 

Him,  and  a  brother's  turptitude  who  took, 

With  impious  hand,  his  birthright,  and  forsook 
The  boy  whose  heart  was  honest  to  the  core. 
To  me  the  sunburnt  Esau  stands  for  more, 

Among  his  Bedouins  by  the  mountain  brook, 

Than  does  the  dubious  memory  of  him 

Who  filched  his  father's  blessings,  and  became 

The  chief  of  Israel. — Tho'  rough  and  grim, 
There  is  no  shadow  of  a  wretch's  shame 
Upon  the  soul  of  Esau, — yet  his  name 

For  moral  darkness  seems  a  synonym. 


WHEN  MARY  WENT  TO  BETHLEHEM 

O  wondrous  maid  of  Galilee! 

Again  across  our  vision  sweeps 
That  far  December  dawn,  when  she 

Came  slowly  down  the  terraced  steeps 
Of  Nazareth.    The  wind  blew  chill, — 

No  lily  nodded  on  its  stem ; 
No  bird  was  heard  on  any  hill, 

When  Mary  went  to  Bethlehem. 

Against  the  gale  her  long  gold  hair 

Streamed  radiantly,  as  she  rode 
Along  the  winding  valley,  where 


66 The  Lute  of  Life 

The  wintry  waves  of  Jordan  flowed ; 
While  humbly  at  her  side  there  strode 

An  heir  to  David's  diadem, 
Whose  kindly  face  with  honor  glowed, 

When  Mary  went  to  Bethlehem. 

And  ever  as  they  fared,  the  twain 

With  uncomplaining  patience  bore 
The  cruel  taunt  and  cold  disdain 

The  haughty  visit  on  the  poor; 
Nor  any  warm,  fraternal  hand 

Of  sympathy  was  reached  to  them ; 
They  passed  in  silence  through  the  land, 

When  Mary  went  to  Bethlehem. 

O  wondrous  maid  of  Galilee! 

The  vision  fades,  and  in  the  sky 
A  star  burns,  marvelous  to  see, 

Above  the  circling  hills  thereby; 
And  hark !  the  drowsy  herdsmen  wake 

To  hear  love's  noblest  apothegm, — 
"Peace  and  good-will,"  the  angels  spake, 

When  Mary  went  to  Bethlehem. 

The  dream  dissolves, — another  scene 

With  nobler  hope  the  world  inspires, — 
On  Judah's  plains  the  Nazarene 

Is  building  love's  diviner  fires; 
A  fuller  splendor  fills  the  earth, 

Whose  light  out-lusters  every  gem, 
Since  shepherds  hailed  the  lowly  birth, 

When  Mary  went  to  Bethlehem. 


THE  HUNTER'S  MOON 

Ho,  ye  lads  of  the  harvest,  ho! 

The  leaves  lie  dead  in  the  lands  below, 

And  the  gray  bluffs  beckon  our  feet  afar 


The  Lute  of  Life 67 

To  the  vales  where  the  prowling  foxes  are ; 
The  winds  are  hushed  on  the  winding  slopes, 
And  down  in  the  hollow  the  woodchuck  mopes — 
The  sedge-grass  snaps  by  the  dry  lagoon, 
And  the  hills  laugh  under  the  Hunter's  Moon. 

Ho,  ye  lads  of  the  harvest,  ho! 
Come  with  horses  and  hounds,  and  go 
Where  the  glens  are  dark  and  the  rocks  are  bare, 
And  the  frost  is  crisp  in  the  midnight  air — 
Where  the  vaulting  vines  and  the  creeping  rills 
Give  a  spectral  charm  to  the  sleeping  hills — 
Where  the  wild  game  wanders,  and,  late  or  soon, 
We  '11  follow  him  far  in  the  Hunter's  Moon. 

Under  the  light  of  the  Hunter's  Moon 

The  clattering  hoofs  of  our  steeds  keep  tune 

To  the  deep'ning  bay  of  the  distant  hounds, 

That  out  of  the  echoing  night  resounds 

As  the  fur-clad  bandits  bound  away 

Over  the  bluffs  and  the  boulders  gray, 

To  the  farthest  north,  where  the  horn'd  owls  croon, 

From  the  topmost  crags,  to  the  Hunter's  Moon. 

The  stars  are  low,  and  the  chase  is  long, 
But  the  breath  of  the  breeze  and  the  river's  song 
Sink  into  the  breast  of  the  brooding  night, 
As  soft  as  the  dream  of  an  old  delight, 
While  the  changing  shades  of  the  shifting  woods 
Make  sombre  the  hearts  of  the  solitudes, 
As  we  gallop  away  thro'  the  forest,  strewn 
With  the  dead,  red  leaves  of  the  Hunter's  Moon. 

When  the  quarry  lies  on  the  hills  of  morn, 
And  the  far,  faint  blast  of  the  hunter's  horn 
Is  heard  in  the  wakening  lands  below, 
We  swing  to  the  saddles  and  homeward  go — 
Winding  along  by  the  river's  brim, 
Cleaving  the  mists  of  the  daybreak  dim, 


68  The  Lute  of  Life 


Merrily  trilling  an  old  love  rune, 

In  the  waning  light  of  the  Hunter's  Moon. 


UNCLE  DAVE 

[Inscribed  to  David  S.  Turner,  who  in  his  semi-daily 
trips  from  his  village  residence  to  his  farm,  three- 
quarters  of  a  mile  away,  has  walked  38,325  miles, 
a  distance  equal  to  once  and  a  half  the  circum- 
ference of  the  earth,  carrying  51,100  gallons  of 
milk.] 

Between  his  kitchen  and  his  cow, 
With  ruddy  cheeks  and  "frosty  pow," 
Plods  Uncle  Dave,  while  on  his  face 
The  sunlight  finds  a  resting-place, 
And  from  his  lips  forever  flow 
The  love-lays  of  the  Long  Ago. 

The  grasses  by  the  roadside  wave 
A  fond  salute  to  Uncle  Dave; 
And  underneath  the  hedgerow  dim 
An  upright  rabbit  laughs  at  him, 
While  from  the  fence  a  friendly  jay 
His  glad  "good-morning"  pipes  away. 

The  children  where  he  passes  run 
To  meet  him  when  the  day  is  done, 
And  listen  to  his  cheery  words, 
As  sweet  to  them  as  songs  of  birds; 
No  prince — no  knight — no  warrior  brave, 
Could  win  their  hearts  like  Uncle  Dave. 

Between  his  kitchen  and  his  cow 
His  steps  are  growing  feebler  now, 
And  soon  the  cadence  of  his  feet 
Will  echo  in  the  Golden  Street, — 
Soon  Eden's  wooing  winds  will  wave 
The  silver  locks  of  Uncle  Dave. 


The  Lute  of  Life  69 


WHEN  JIMMY  COMES  FROM  SCHOOL* 

When  Jimmy  comes  from  school  at  four, 
J-e-r-u-s-a-1-e-m !  how  things  begin 
To  whirl  and  buzz  and  bang  and  spin, 

And  brighten  up  from  roof  to  floor; 
The  dog  that  all  day  long  has  lain 

Upon  the  back  porch,  wags  his  tail, 
And  leaps  and  barks,  and  begs  again 

The  last  scrap  in  the  dinner  pail, 

When  Jimmy  comes  from  school. 

The  cupboard  latches  clink  a  tune, 

And  mother  from  her  knitting  stirs 

To  tell  that  hungry  boy  of  hers 
That  supper  will  be  ready  soon; 

And  then  a  slab  of  pie  he  takes, 
A  cooky,  and  a  quince  or  two, 

And  for  the  breezy  barnyard  breaks, 
Where  everything  cries  "How  d'y  do!" 
When  Jimmy  comes  from  school. 

The  rooster  on  the  garden  fence 

Struts  up  and  down  and  crows  and  crows, 

As  if  he  knows,  or  thinks  he  knows, 
He,  too,  is  of  some  consequence; 

The  guineas  join  the  chorus,  too, 
And  just  beside  the  window-sill 

The  redbird,  swinging  out  of  view 
On  his  light  perch,  begins  to  trill, 
When  Jimmy  comes  from  school. 

When  Jimmy  comes  from  school,  take  care! 
Our  hearts  begin  to  throb  and  quake 
With  life  and  joy,  and  every  ache 

Is  gone  before  we  are  aware; 


•  By  permission  of  the  Ladies'  Home  Journal.    Copyright,  The  Curtis 
Publishing  Company. 


70  The  Lute  of  Life 


The  earth  takes  on  a  richer  hue, 
A  softer  light  falls  on  the  flowers, 

And  overhead  a  brighter  blue 
Seems  bent  above  this  world  of  ours, 
When  Jimmy  comes  from  school. 


JULY  IN  THE  WEST 

DAY 

A  rhythm  of  reapers ;  a  flashing 
Of  steels  in  the  meadows ;  a  lashing 
Of  sheaves  in  the  wheatlands;  a  glitter 
Of  grain-builded  streets,  and  a  twitter 
O  birds  in  a  motionless  sky, — 
And  that  is  July! 

A  rustle  of  corn-leaves;  a  tinkle 
Of  bells  on  the  hills ;  a  twinkle 
Of  sheep  in  the  lowlands ;  a  bevy 
Of  bees  where  the  clover  is  heavy; 
A  butterfly  blundering  by, — 
And  that  is  July! 

NIGHT 

A  moon-flood  prairie;  a  straying 
Of  light-hearted  lovers;  a  baying 
Of  far-away  watch-dogs;  a  dreaming 
Of  brown-fisted  farmers ;  a  gleaming 
Of  fire-flies  eddying  nigh, — 
And  that  is  July! 

A  babble  of  brooks  that  deliver 
Their  flower-purfled  waves  to  the  river; 
A  moan  in  the  marshes;  in  thickets, 
A  dolorous  droning  of  crickets, 
Attuned  to  a  whippoorwill's  cry, — 
And  that  is  July! 


The  Lute  of  Life  71 


WINTER  NIGHT  ON  THE  FARM 

Is  there  aught  in  life  we  prize 
Like  the  light  of  home  that  lies 
Over  us  when  Winter  shakes 
From  the  North  his  frosty  flakes, — 
When  the  chill  winds  at  the  pane 
Beat  their  icy  wings  in  vain? 
Is  there  any  joy  on  earth 
Like  to  that  which  findeth  birth 
By  the  firelight,  snug  and  warm, 
Of  the  old  home  on  the  farm? 

Undisturbed,  and  far  from  town, 

Our  ambitions  narrow  down 
To  a  nest  of  small  desires 
Bounded  by  the  evening's  fires ; 

All  the  passions  of  the  year 

Pass  away  in  laughter  here, 
Where  the  saucy  kettle  sings, 
And  the  sturdy  back-log  flings 

The  defiance  of  its  glance 

To  the  winds  as  they  advance. 

Here  the  magic  pop-corn  snaps 
Into  little  snowy  caps 
For  the  chubby  hands  that  ache 
In  their  rapture  to  partake; 
Here  the  pippins,  plump  and  sleek, 
Piled  up  in  the  pantry,  speak, 
Plain  as  any  mortal  may, 
Of  the  summer  passed  away, — 
Bringing  back,  to  nights  like  these, 
Bird-songs  and  the  hum  of  bees. 

Hickory-nuts  and  walnuts,  too, 
Break  their  hearts  for  me  and  youj — 
Yield  their  very  souls  to  make 
Pleasure  for  the  children's  sake ; 


72 The  Lute  of  Life 

And  the  cider's  kindly  cup 

Offers  its  keen  spirit  up 
On  the  altar  of  good  cheer, 
In  this  wild  night  of  the  year — 

In  this  night  when  Love  and  Mirth 

Hold  their  court  around  the  hearth. 

Out  with  all  new-fangled  toys ! 
Country  girls  and  country  boys, 
Blest  with  wholesome  appetites, 
Find  their  measure  of  delights 
Where  the  pound-cake's  pyramid 
Rises  like  a  mosque  amid 
Aromatic  streets,  that  lie 
Jelly-fringed  and  paved  with  pie ; 
Never  Bagdad's  splendors  bent 
Over  homes  of  more  content. 

Keep  us  ever  thus,  we  cry, 
Not  too  low  and  not  too  high; 
Teach  us  to  appreciate 
Just  the  store  of  our  estate; 
Hold  in  check  the  common  greed 
For  all  things  beyond  our  need; 
Measure  unto  every  one 
Fair  desert  of  shower  and  sun, 
And  with  Love's  enfolding  arm 
Shield  our  home-life  on  the  farm. 


Prove,  if  you  can,  that  we  are  not  dead ; 

Prove  that  life  is  all  that  it  seems; 
Prove  that  the  planet  on  which  we  tread 

Is  anything  more  than  a  nest  of  dreams ; 
Prove  that  the  bluebird's  plume  is  blue, — 
Then  prove,  if  you  can,  that  the  proof  is  true. 


The  Lute  of  Life  73 


We  two  were  lovers  in  some  alien  sphere, 
Some  morning  planet,  ere  the  earth  had  spun 
Its  first  gold  ribbon  round  the  ardent  sun ; 

And  we  were  plighted,  but  were  parted  ere 

The  first  defiant  star  had  set  his  spear 
Against  old  Chaos — ere  the  winds  had  run 
Their  wild  first  races,  or  the  tides  had  won 

The  moon's  love,  sobbing  in  her  lonesome  ear. 

We  trod  the  troubled  aeons  far  apart, 
Nor  any  message  came  from  her  to  me 

To  light  my  way  across  the  lampless  vast. 
To-night  we  met  again.    O  doubting  heart, 
Be  still !    God  shapes  His  purposes,  and  we, 
Twin  pilgrims  of  the  void,  touch  lips  at  last. 


'WAY  DOWN  IN  SPICE  VALLEY 

'Way  down  in  Spice  Valley  I  'm  drifting  to-night, 
On  a  river  of  dreams,  with  a  heart  that  is  light 
As  the  lilt  of  the  woodlark  a-tilt  on  the  tree 
By  the  spot  where  my  cot  in  that  vale  used  to  be — 
When  life  was  a  lily  just  opening  its  eye 
To  the  dew  of  the  dawn  and  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
'Way  down  in  Spice  Valley. 

'Way  down  in  Spice  Valley,  in  fancy,  I  see 
The  bloom  of  the  clover  still  beck'ning  the  bee — 
The  low-leaning  orchards,  the  herds  on  the  hill, 
And  the  road,  like  a  ribbon  unspooled,  to  the  mill ; 
Still,  still,  in  my  dream,  I  can  see  the  old  stream, 
And  the  ford  where  the  farmer  drove  over  his  team, 
'Way  down  in  Spice  Valley. 

'Way  down  in  Spice  Valley,  Old  Time  falls  asleep, 
With  his  head  on  the  sward,  in  a  slumber  so  deep 
That  the  birds  can  not  wake  him  with  melodies  blithe, 


74 The  Lute  of  Life 

And  the  long  valley-grasses  grow  over  his  scythe, — 
And  Summer  kneels  down,  in  her  long  golden  gown, 
On  a  carpet  of  green,  where  the  skies  never  frown, 
'Way  down  in  Spice  Valley. 

*Way  down  in  Spice  Valley,  my  memory  goes, 
With  a  sigh  like  the  sob  of  the  river  that  flows 
In  that  far-away  vale, — and  I  pray  in  my  dream 
To  be  borne,  when  I  die,  to  that  beautiful  stream, 
And  tenderly  laid  in  the  welcoming  shade 
Of  the  wide-spreading  woods,  where  I  wandered  and 
played, 

'Way  down  in  Spice  Valley. 


BLONDE  AND  BRUNETTE 

(TO   ADA   B.    SISSON   AND    MACY    CURTIS) 

0  eyes  that  are  brown,  and  O  eyes  that  are  blue, 
This  garland  of  greeting  I  send  unto  you ; 

1  tie  my  love  up  in  two  packages,  hark! 

With  a  ribbon  that 's  blue  and  a  ribbon  that 's  dark, 

Symbolic  of  eyes  that  are  piercing  my  dreams 

In  the  silence  of  night  with  their  scintillant  beams. 

To  eyes  that  are  Blue  and  to  eyes  that  are  Brown, 

I  lift  up  by  hat,  as  I  lean  my  head  down, 

In  a  slavish  surrender  of  body  and  mind 

To  the  Blue  and  the  Brown  in  their  beauty  combined ; — 

For  these  are  my  colors  forever  and  aye, 

One  dark  as  the  night  and  one  light  as  the  day. 

A  kiss  for  the  lid  of  the  eye  that  is  Blue, 

When  the  eye  that  is  Brown  has  escaped  from  my  view ; 

And  one  for  the  lid  of  the  eye  that  is  Brown, 

When  the  eye  that  is  Blue  has  been  called  out  of  town ; 

Alas !  it  is  hard  for  a  mortal  to  choose — 

The  ravishing  Browns  or  the  rapturous  Blues. 


The  Lute  of  Life 75 

Come  pledge  me  a  health  to  the  Eye  that  is  Blue 
As  the  sky  overhead  when  the  sun  filters  through; 
Come  pledge  me  a  glass  to  the  Eye  that  is  Brown, 
That  gleams  when  the  rest  of  the  planets  are  down; 
Then  fill  up  another — a  toast  to  the  two, 
The  riotous  Brown  and  the  rollicking  Blue. 


TO  MY  LADY  NICOTINA 

To  thee,  my  brown  sultana,  would  I  bring 
The  frankincense  of  song's  sweet  offering, 
And  at  my  lady's  sovereign  feet  would  kneel — 
A  willing 'slave  in  chains  of  pleasing  steel. 

O  Nicotina !  unto  me  thou  art 

The  empress  of  a  dynasty  apart, 

Where  dwell  sweet  dreams,  and  drowsy  poppies  shine 

By  lonely  lakes,  in  lotos-lands  divine. 

Within  the  circling  shadows  of  thy  tents 
Thy  siren  smile  confuses  every  sense; 
And  Age  and  Youth — thy  rival  devotees — 
Heap  high  their  tributes  at  thy  royal  knees. 

Beneath  the  spell  of  thy  mesmeric  glance 
Old  Time  forgets  his  scythe,  and  leads  the  dance : 
Tho'  nations  cry  for  succor,  what  care  we? 
Thy  beauty  conquers,  and  we  bide  with  thee. 

In  every  land,  on  every  sea  and  shore, 
Men  lift  their  eyes  to  laud  thee  and  adore; 
For  thee  a  thousand  Antonys  have  hurled 
Aside  the  mighty  kingdoms  of  this  world. 

Not  in  the  loveless  East  thy  life  began — 

Thou  art,  my  lady,  all  American; 

The  Flower  of  Conquest,  under  whose  warm  lips 

The  knightly  Raleigh  nigh  forsook  his  ships. 


76 The  Lute  of  Life 

Thy  breath  is  like  to  soothing  odors  blown 
From  drowsy  islands,  lulled  by  seas  unknown, 
In  purple  sunsets  where  long  summers  dream, 
And  nothing  truly  is,  but  all  things  seem. 

Thou  art  the  dusky  empress  unto  whom 
Dictators  bow  and  despots  dip  their  plume> 
Bewildered  at  the  potency  that  lies 
Forever  regnant  in  thy  heart  and  eyes. 

In  thy  pavilions  cometh  such  repose 
As  none  who  lives,  except  thy  lover,  knows ; 
By  night  or  day,  beneath  thy  woven  charms, 
He  rests  serenely  whom  thy  wooing  warms. 

No  fabled  goddess  ever  yet  did  start 

Such  fires  of  passion  in  the  human  heart 

As  thou,  O  tawny  daughter  of  the  West, 

Hast  fanned  to  flame  within  thy  suitor's  breast. 

Ah,  Lady  Nicotina!  from  thy  shrine 
Some  lips  may  stray,  but  never  these  of  mine — 
Not  while  the  sweetness  of  thy  breath  remains 
To  soothe  my  heart  and  tranquilize  my  pains. 


THE  DESERTED  INN* 

It  stands  all  alone  like  a  goblin  in  gray, 
The  old-fashioned  inn  of  a  pioneer  day, 
In  a  land  so  forlorn  and  forgotten,  it  seems 
Like  a  wraith  of  the  past  rising  into  our  dreams  ; 
Its  glories  have  vanished,  and  only  the  ghost 
Of  a  sign-board  now  creaks  on  its  desolate  post, 
Recalling  a  time  when  all  hearts  were  akin 
As  they  rested  a  night  in  that  welcoming  inn. 

*  By  permission  of  the  Ladies'  Home  Journal.    Copyright,  The  Curti« 
Publishing  Company. 


The  Lute  of  Life 77 

The  patient  old  well-sweep  that  knelt  like  a  nun, 
And  lifted  cool  draughts  to  the  lips  of  each  one, 
Is  gone  from  the  place,  and  its  curbing  of  stone 
Is  a  clump  of  decay,  with  rank  weeds  overgrown; 
And  where  the  red  barn  with  its  weathercock  rose 
On  the  crest  of  the  hill,  now  the  wild  ivy  grows, 
And  only  the  shade  of  the  tall  chincapin 
Remaineth  unchanged  at  the  old  country  inn. 

The  wind  whistles  shrill  through  the  wide-open  doors, 
And  lizards  keep  house  on  the  moldering  floors; 
The  kitchen  is  cold,  and  the  hall  is  as  still 
As  the  heart  of  the  hostess,  out  there  on  the  hill ; 
The  fire-place  that  roared  in  the  long  winter  night, 
When  the  wine  circled  round,  and  the  laughter  was 

light, 

Is  a  mass  of  gray  stones,  and  the  garret-rats  play 
Hide-and-seek  on  the  stairs  in  the  glare  of  the  day. 

No  longer  the  host  hobbles  down  from  his  rest 
In  the  porch's  cool  shadow,  to  welcome  his  guest 
With  a  smile  of  delight,  and  a  grasp  of  the  hand, 
And  a  glance  of  the  eye  that  no  heart  could  withstand. 
When  the  long  rains  of  autumn  set  in  from  the  west 
The  mirth  of  the  landlord  was  broadest  and  best, 
And  the  stranger  who  paused,  over  night,  never  knew 
If  the  clock  on  the  mantel  struck  ten  or  struck  two. 

Oh,  the  songs  they  would  sing,  and  the  tales  they  would 

spin, 

As  they  lounged  in  the  light  of  the  old  country  inn. 
But  a  day  came  at  last  when  the  stage  brought  no  load 
To  the  gate,  as  it  rolled  up  the  long,  dusty  road. 
And  lo!  at  the  sunrise  a  shrill  whistle  blew 
O'er  the  hills— and  the  old  yielded  place  to  the  new — 
And  a  merciless  age  with  its  discord  and  din 
Made  wreck,  as  it  passed,  of  the  pioneer  inn. 


78 The  Lute  of  Life 

IN  DAYS  TO  COME 

(TO   JAMES    WHITCOMB 

In  days  to  come,  when  you  and  I 
Wax  faint  and  frail,  and  heart-fires  die, 

And  tinkling  rhymes  no  more  obey 

The  wooing  lips  of  yesterday, 
How  slowly  will  the  hours  go  by ! 
When  we  have  drained  our  song-cups  dry, 
My  comrade,  shall  we  sit  and  sigh, 

Childlike,  o'er  joys  too  sweet  to  stay, 
In  days  to  come  ? 

Nay !  nay !  we  '11  give  Old  Time  the  lie, 
And,  thatched  with  three-score  years,  we  '11  try 
A  rondeau  or  a  roundelay 
As  long  as  any  lute-string  may 
To  our  light  touches  make  reply — 
In  days  to  come. 

RILEY'S  RESPONSE 

In  days  to  come — whatever  ache 
Of  age  shall  rack  our  bones,  or  quake 
Our  slackened  sinews — whate'er  grip 
Rheumatic  catch  us  i'  the  hip, — 
We,  each  one  for  the  other's  sake, 
Will  of  our  very  wailings  make 
Such  quips  of  song  as  well  may  shake 
The  spasm'd  corners  from  the  lip — 
In  days  to  come. 

Ho!  ho!  how  our  old  hearts  shall  rake 
The  past  up ! — how  our  dry  eyes  slake 
Their  sight  upon  the  dewy  drip 
Of  juicy-ripe  companionship, 
And  blink  stars  from  the  blind  opaque — 
In  days  to  come. 

— J.  W.  R. 


The  Lute  of  Life  79 

THE  SADDEST  HOUR 

The  saddest  hour  is  not  the  hour  that  brings 
A  hint  of  death  upon  its  direful  wings; 
Neither  is  it  the  fearful  moment  when 
Our  faith  first  wavers  in  our  fellow-men ; — 
The  saddest  hour  is  not  the  hour  in  which 
We  wake  to  find  ourselves  no  longer  rich ; 
Nor  is  it  that  unhappy  time  wherein 
We  feel  the  first  keen  penalty  of  sin. 

'T  is  not  the  moment  when  some  loved  one  spurns 
The  tender  passion  in  our  breast  that  burns; 

Nor-  that  in  which  a  doting  parent's  heart 

Is  stricken,  when  home  ties  are  torn  apart ; 
Nay !  nay !  the  saddest  hour  that  can  oppress 
The  soul  is  when,  in  utter  hopelessness, 

No  mercy  answers  its  appealing  cry 

As  it  must  witness  its  ideals  die. 


BALLADE  OF  OLD  POETS 

How  idle  are  the  songs  we  sing, 

When  matched  with  those  immortal  lays 
That,  organ-like,  rose  thundering, 

And  shook  the  world  in  other  days ! 

We  are  as  parrots,  daws,  and  jays, 
Who  can  but  jabber,  mock,  and  jest, 

And  pander  to  the  public  praise — 
The  old-time  poets  were  the  best. 

Our  petty  passions  clutch  and  cling 

To  every  passing  theme  that  pays — 
A  silly  rondeau's  ting-a-ling, 

Or  villanelle,  is  all  the  craze ; 

Shelley  is  shunned,  and  Byron's  bays 
Are  losing  lustre,  east  and  west, 

And  yet  the  fact  remains,  always, 
The  old-time  poets  were  the  best. 


8o  The  Lute  of  Life 


How  little  zeal  we  singers  bring 

To  fire  the  spirit  and  upraise 
The  sad-faced  masses  groveling 

In  rayless  gloom,  beyond  our  gaze! 

Our  tuneful  chatter  but  betrays 
The  vacant  mind,  the  hardened  breast, 

In  which  the  finer  sense  decays — 
The  old-time  poets  were  the  best. 

I/ENVOI 

Brothers !  the  saddest,  sorriest  phase 
Of  modern  song  is  here  confess'd, 

Whose  truth  not  any  tongue  gainsays- 
The  old-time  poets  were  the  best. 


NOVEMBER  DOWN   THE  WABASH 

Upon   the   Wabash   hills,   and   down 
The  lonesome  glens,  the  leaves  are  brown 
With  early  frost,  and  gray  birds  skim 
The  cooling  waters,  and  the  slim 
Ungartered  willows  stand  knee-deep 
Along  the  river's  edge,  and  weep 
To  see  the  summer's  parting  gleam 
Pass,  like  a  shadow,  down  the  stream, 
Or  like  the  memory  of  one 
We  loved  in  youth  and  doted  on. 

Silence  is  on  the  Wabash  hills, 
Save  where  a  lonely  bluebird  trills 
Upon  the  windy  oak,  or  where 
The  nuts  drip  from  the  branches  bare, 
Or  squirrels  chatter  in  the  sun ; — 
A  hush,  as  if  all  life  were  done, 
Reigns  thro'  the  woods ;  the  waters  lie 
So  dead  and  motionless,  the  sky 
Leans  dolorously  down,  as  though 
To  meet  its  mirrored  self  below. 


The  Lute  of  Life  81 

No  boyish  laughter  pours  along 

The  Wabash  hills, — no  lover's  song 

Re-echoes  up  the  tangled  ways 

As  in  the  long,  glad  summer  days ; 

No  barefoot  lads,  with  hook  and  rod, 

Beside  the  shadowy  waters  plod, — 

No  maids  come  down  to  twine  and  strew 

With  valley-flowers  the  old  canoe, — 

Only  a  blind  owl  floating  by, 

And  far  clouds  driving  up  the  sky. 

Thus,  like  a  sombre  shadow,  broods 

November  o'er  the  Wabash  woods; 

Far  to  the  south  the  slanting  sun 

Has  gone,  and  Winter  soon  will  run 

His  sledges  up  the  frozen  heights, — 

And  grates  will  glow,  and  long  dark  nights 

Will  trance  the  drowsy  brain  with  dreams 

Of  other  days, — and  fitful  gleams 

Of  Beauty  will  dissolve  the  gloom 

In  seas  of  summer  warmth  and  bloom 


THE  SWEETHEART  I  NEVER  HAVE  SEEN 

O  here  's  to  the  sweetheart  I  never  have  seen, 
The  one  fairest  woman — my  idol,  my  queen — 
Who  thralls  me  with  mystery,  calls  me  her  own, 
And  sweeps  up  the  stairs  of  my  heart  to  her  throne, 
With  a  pride  of  possession  so  charmingly  sweet 
That  I  smile  at  the  confident  sound  of  her  feet, 
As  I  reach  out  my  arms  with  a  yearning  that  she 
Understands  as  she  sinks  on  my  welcoming  knee, 
With  a  look  so  appealing,  so  fond  and  serene, — 
The  dear  little  sweetheart  I  never  have  seen. 

Her  eyes  are  the  eyes  of  a  dove,  and  her  mouth 
Is  a  hint  of  old  Egypt — a  dream  of  the  South — 
As  it  lies  like  an  island  of  rubies  a-shine 


82  The  Lute  of  Life 


In  a  sea  of  warm  lilies — and  all  of  them  mine! 
No  chisel  of  Athens — no  graver  of  Rome — 
No  master  abroad,  and  no  painter  at  home, 
E'er  colored  a  Venus  or  carved  a  Faustine 
As  fair  as  my  sweetheart  I  never  have  seen. 

Her  voice  is  a  lute,  and  the  coil  of  her  arm 
Is  a  cadence  of  love,  as  she  cuddles  her  warm 
Girlish  head  on  my  breast,  while  her  lips  seek  my  own 
With  a  rapture  that 's  only  an  answering  tone ; — 
I  have  gazed  on  the  beauty — have  feasted  my  eyes 
On  the  fairest  of  earth,  of  all  climates  and  skies; 
But  Greece  hath  no  Helen,  and  Egypt  no  queen, 
To  match  with  my  sweetheart  I  never  have  seen. 


THE  BATHER* 

No  light  can  limn — no  art  can  trace — 

The  haunting  beauty  of  her  face 

As,  standing  where  the  morning  spills 

Its  splendor  on  the  purpling  hills, 

She  leans  against  the  terrace-stone 

Beside  a  garden  overblown 

With  flowers  most  marvelously  fair 

Amidst  the  fountains  flashing  there — 

A  scene  which,  robbed  of  her,  would  seem 

A  sweet,  but  most  imperfect,  dream. 

Released  from  the  embracing  pool, 
Her  round,  white  body,  chaste  and  cool, 
Half-hidden  by  the  burnished  gold 
Of  falling  tresses,  fold  on  fold, 
Leans  like  a  marble  Naiad  drawn 
To  lure  the  ardent  eyes  of  Dawn — 
Or  like  a  dream  of  symmetry 


•"By  Permission  of  the  Smart  Set  Magazine.    Copyright,  Ess  Ess 
Publishing  Company. 


The  Lute  of  Life  83 


Which  but  the  pure  in  heart  may  see, 
And  see  but  once,  and  then  confess 
That  heaven  holds  less  loveliness. 

To  see  the  envious  crystals  drip, 
Reluctant,  from  her  crimson  lip — 
To  mark  the  rival  day-beams  place 
The  first  warm  kisses  on  her  face — 
To  note  the  racing  breezes  test 
Their  fleetness,  but  to  reach  her  breast- 
To  see  contending  roses  seek 
Expression  in  her  velvet  cheek — 
To  watch  the  jealous  lilies  swim 
And  loll  against  her  snowy  limb — 
These,  these,  are  but  the  outward  hints 
Of  all  the  raptures,  graces,  tints, 
Which,  like  some  precious  Orient  pearl, 
Accent  the  beauty  of  the  girl — 
Or  but  reflect  in  dazzling  guise 
The  soul,  the  love  within  her  eyes — 
The  light,  the  music,  and  the  mirth, 
That  make  our  spirits  cling  to  earth. 


SYMBOLS 

What  is  forgetfulness,  my  love? 

The  white  wing  of  a  passing  dove — * 
The  twilight  folding  of  a  flower — 
The  fleeting  of  a  friendly  hour — 

The  falling  of  autumnal  leaves — 

The  flight  of  swallows  from  the  eaves; 
The  sun  itself,  my  dear,  when  setting, 
Is  Love's  best  semblance  of  forgetting. 

What  is  remembrance?    'Tis,  my  sweet, 
The  music  of  returning  feet — 
The  rare  re-opening  of  a  rose — 
A  frozen  stream  again  that  flows — 


84  The  Lute  of  Life 


A  lone  star  struggling  through  the  dark- 
The  fluting  of  the  dawn's  first  lark; — 
The  rising  sun — the  quickening  spring, 
Are  symbols  of  remembering. 


WILLIAM  HENRY  RAGAN 

A  name  not  quite  so  rhythmic  and  poetical,  perchance, 
As  some  that  glitter  on  the  page  of  fable  and  romance, 
And  yet  upon  my  memory  it  sheds  as  fair  a  light 
As  that  of  any  mythic  prince  or  mediaeval  knight, 
Whose  chiefest  glory,  haply,  was  the  sacking  of  a  town, 
The  pillage  of  a  province,  or  the  stealing  of  a  crown. 

No  gilded  armor  flashes  on  the  hero  that  I  sing, 
No  deeds  of  doubtful  honor  upon  his  record  cling, — 
No  legend  of  a  selfish  act  is  coupled  with  his  name, 
No  trumpeter  has  gone  before,  his  virtues  to  proclaim ; 
He  walks  the  world — my  hero — with  a  dignifying  grace 
That  speaks  in  every  action  and  is  felt  in  every  place. 

A  citizen  as  modest  as  a  girl, — and  yet  a  man 

With  the  spirit  of  a  scientist  to  travel  in  the  van 

And  lead  the  peaceful  brotherhood,  whose  holy  mission 

seems 
To  make  the   earth  as   rosy  as  the  garden  of  our 

dreams —    • 
To  sow  the  world  with  beauty,  and  to  chronicle  in 

flowers 
The  inspirations  hidden  in  this  busy  life  of  ours. 

From  the  orchard-lands  of  boyhood  to  the  crimson 

slope  of  death, 
He  went — my  quiet  hero — when  the  bravest  held  his 

breath ; 

He  rode  away  to  battle  with  the  same  unselfish  zeal 
That  found  its  best  expression  in  the  level  lines  of 

steel, 


The  Lute  of  Life 85 

When  the  canopy  of  heaven  had  been  robbed  of  every 

star 
By  the  smoke  of  carnage  rolling  from  the  furnaces  of 

war. 

Yet  never  man  of  blood  is  he,  but  rather  one  in  whom 
The  gentler  virtues  germinate — the  milder  manners 

bloom ; 

A  soul  attuned  to  sympathy — a  heart  made  kind  to  bless 
The  helpless  in  their  weakness  and  the  lowly  in  dis- 
tress ; — 

A  courtier  of  Nature, — a  counselor  who  feels 
The  stress  of  the  affliction  that  his  ministration  heals. 

His  name  may  not  be  written  on  the  scroll  with  those 

who  wake 
The  plaudits  of  the  people  with  the  rattle-box  they 

shake ; — 

But  in  the  Book  Eternal  where  the  brighter  few  appear 
Of  those  who  loved  their  fellow-men  and  shared  their 

burdens  here, 

The  name  of  Ragan  will  be  writ  in  characters  of  light 
Along  with  that  of  Galahad,  the  purest-hearted  knight. 


WHEN  PANSY  PLAYS  THE  VIOLIN 

The  lake  is  clear,  the  night  is  still, 

The  moonlight  on  the  water  lies; 
We  drop  the  oars  and  drift  at  will, 

Communing  only  with  our  eyes; 
At  either  side,  as  on  we  float, 

By  drowsy  islands  dimly  scanned, 
The  water-lilies  fringe  the  boat 

Like  sails  blown  out  of  fairyland: — 
Ah,  then  the  discord  and  the  din 
That  haunt  the  heart  are  hushed  within,' 
When  Pansy  plays  the  violin. 


86  The  Lute  of  Life 


When  Pansy  plays  the  violin, 

As  o'er  the  wooing  waves  we  go, 
Beneath  her  coyly-drooping  chin 

There  lies  a  bank  of  sloping  snow, 
Half-hidden  by  the  instrument 

That  rapturously  poises  there 
And  whispers  its  divine  content 

In  many  a  sweet,  enchanting  air: — 
How  quick  the  cares  of  life  begin 
To  fade,  as  we  float  out  and  in, 
When  Pansy  plays  the  violin! 

Fleet  after  fleet  of  lilies  swim 

Along  our  wake,  as  on  and  on 
We  drift  against  the  purple  rim 

Of  midnight,  till  the  moon  is  gone; 
O  eyes  of  blue,  and  hair  of  gold, 

And  carven  lips  up-curved  to  kiss! 
The  world  is  old,  and  time  is  old, 

But,  somehow,  true-love  never  is; — 
And  Cupid,  cunning  harlequin, 
Too  well  he  knows  his  wiles  will  win, 
When  Pansy  plays  the  violin. 


A  LETTER  TO  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

Dear  Jamesy : — 

I  miss  you,  old  boy,  as  the  years 
Drop  away  like  the  drip  of  my  tears. 

I  miss  the  brave  voice,  and  the  touch 
Of  the  hand  that  I  prized  overmuch. 

I  miss  the  old  raptures  that  woke 
In  my  soul  at  the  praises  you  spoke. 

I  miss  the  glad  rhymes  that  we  writ, 
With  their  fragrance  of  love  and  of  wit. 


The  Lute  of  Life 87 

I  miss  the  wild  yarns  that  we  spun, 
And  the  laughter  that  followed  each  one. 

I  miss  the  bright  midnights  that  grew 
Into  blossoms  of  mirth  as  they  flew. 

I  miss  the  hale  songs  that  were  blent 
Over  beakers  that  blushed  as  they  went. 

I  miss  the  old  books  that  we  read, 

On  our  backs,  with  the  lamp  at  our  head. 

But  most  do  I  miss,  as  I  write, 
Some  trick  of  expression  to-night. 

I  miss  the  light  measures  that  rolled 
Into  ripples  of  rhyme,  as  of  old. 

But  in  our  souls'  channels,  old  friend 
The  rhythmical  currents  still  blend. 

And  over  the  rim  of  the  years, 
And  under  a  rainbow  of  tears, 

We  '11  wed  our  warm  palms  with  a  smile, 
As  we  think  of  the  joy — afterwhile. 


TO  JESSIE 

I  can  not — will  not — dare  not  think 
That  He  who  joined  your  soul  to  mine 

Will  rudely  break  the  golden  link 
And  thus  defeat  His  own  design. 

Your  path  and  mine  awhile  may  part, 
Fate  wills  it  so — but,  O,  my  sweet, 

The  time  will  come  when,  heart  to  heart, 
We  two  shall  meet — we  two  shall  meet ! 


The  Lute  of  Life 


I  feel  your  presence  everywhere, 
Your  dark  eyes  gleam  in  all  I  see ; 

Like  some  bright  spirit  of  the  air, 
You  come  to  me — you  come  to  me! 

Do  you  not  feel  the  destiny 

That  brings  me,  slavelike,  to  your  feet? 
Have  you  no  secret  thought  for  me 

That  scarce  your  own  lips  dare  repeat? 

When  I  recall  each  rosy  hour 

That  burned  to  ashes  at  your  grate, 

I  know  that  some  controlling  power, 
Dear  girl,  is  fashioning  our  fate. 

And  so  I  bide  the  Will  Supreme, 
Believing  that  the  time  will  be 

When  all  the  joys  of  which  I  dream 
Will  come  to  me — will  come  to  me. 

It  may  be  long — I  question  not, 
But  rest  content  from  day  to  day ; 

Tho'  dark  as  death  may  be  my  lot, 
One  hope  alone  shall  be  my  stay. 

And  now  to  Him  who  arched  the  skies 
I  trust  my  all,  assured  that  He 

Will  rightly  shape  our  destinies, 

And  bring  you — bring  you  back  to  me. 


IN  A  BOOK-STALL 
(A  VOICE;  FROM  THE; 


Ah,  friend  of  ours!  again  to-day 
We  hail  you  as  you  enter  here, 

In  our  seclusion  shut  away, 
And  quite  forgot  from  year  to  year ; 

We  recognize  your  voice — your  smile — 


The  Lute  of  Life  89 

We  know  your  footfall  on  the  floor, 
And  when  you  loiter  down  the  aisle 
Our  old  hearts  leap  to  life  once  more. 

You  come  alone,  like  some  fond  child 

Who,  caring  naught  for  sports  that  be, 
Resigns  the  romp  and  riot  wild 

To  perch  upon  his  grandsire's  knee; 
Your  gentle  constancy  is  all 

That  cheers  us  in  this  gloom  confined, 
Yet  once  we  held  an  age  in  thrall 

And  shaped  the  counsels  of  mankind. 

Alas !  we  're  but  a  motley  race, 

Abject,  ill-favored,  out  of  date, 
With  flimsy  garb  and  frowsy  face, 

And  shorn  of  each  attractive  trait ; 
Yet  in  our  dotage  linger  still 

Some  pregnant  mem'ries  of  our  prime, 
When,  like  a  trumpet  piping  shrill, 

We  thrilled  the  young  blood  of  our  time. 

Philosopher  and  bard  and  sage 

Have  sanctified  us  with  their  breath, 
And  left  their  lordly  heritage 

With  us — and  so  we  scoff  at  death ; 
What  boots  it  if  a  brainless  age 

Consign  us  to  this  narrow  scope? 
Enough,  if  but  one  tattered  page 

Still  tingle  with  the  pulse  of  Pope. 

The  petty  insults  of  neglect 

That  greet  us  in  this  prison  gray 
Are  trifles,  when  we  recollect 

The  glory  of  a  vanished  day ; 
If  paltry  poets  pass  us  by, 

And  statesmen  scorn  to  come  a-near, 
Enough !  we  charmed  a  Cromwell's  eye, 

And  Spenser  left  a  book-mark  here. 


90  The  Lute  of  Life 

O  friend !  so  steadfast  and  so  true, 

So  patient  in  your  lonely  quest, 
We  keep  no  secrets  back  from  you — 

From  you,  our  fond  and  welcome  guest ; 
Go  where  you  will — the  doors  fling  wide — 

Ransack  the  larder — loose  the  locks ; 
No  wealth  of  ours  shall  be  denied 

To  any  love  like  yours  that  knocks. 


THE  FLQWER-GIRU 

How  comes  it,  to-night,  as  all  lonely 

I  sit  where  the  chandelier  gleams, 
That  one  little  form,  and  one  only, 

Conies  up  through  the  dusk  of  my  dreams,- 
Trips  out  through  the  twilight  of  fancies, 

And  halts  at  the  side  of  my  chair, 
With  a  handful  of  lilies  and  pansies, 

And  one  snowy  rose  in  her  hair? 

O  little  flower-girl  of  my  wedding! 

I  push  back  the  years  with  a  smile, 
As  I  think  of  the  night  you  went  spreading 

Those  flowers  up  the  carpeted  aisle, 
To  the  music  of  Mendelssohn  thrilling 

In  ecstasies  warm  on  the  air, 
While  the  fairest  of  Junes  was  distilling 

Its  rarest  perfumes  everywhere. 

The  bride  of  that  night  now  reposes 

In  dreams  so  delicious  and  sweet, 
She  heeds  not  the  whispering  roses 

That  throng  at  her  head  and  her  feet; 
And  the  little  flower-girl  of  the  wedding 

Has  grown  into  woman's  estate; — 
Ah,  I  wish  that  the  path  she  is  treading 

Would  lead  to  the  spot  where  I  wait. 


The  Lute  of  Life 91 

AFTER  A  LITTLE  WHILE 

A  little  while  longer  together,  my  love, 

And  the  night  over  one  of  us  twain  will  fall, — 
And  the  future  that  we  have  been  dreaming  of 
Will  muffle  its  face  in  a  funeral-pall; 
It  will  not  be  I. — O  the  sad  truth  lies 
Like  a  burning  coal  on  my  heart  and  eyes, 
And  parches  my  soul  as  the  days  go  by, 

When  I  feel,  when  I  know,  after  all — after  all — 
It  will  not  be  I. 

A  few  more  weeks  together,  my  dear, 

And  over  the  rose  of  your  warm,  sweet  cheek 
I  will  press  my  lips,  but  you  will  not  hear 

The  crash  of  my  hopes  nor  the  words  I  speak; 
God  in  His  mercy  be  near  me  then, 
In  the  hush  of  that  desolate  moment,  when 
The  house  grows  silent  and  friends  draw  nigh, 
And  even  the  whispers  of  solace  seem  bleak 
As  the  winds  that  cry. 

A  few  more  days  together,  my  own, 

A  few  more  precious  and  beautiful  days, 
And  I  shall  go  out  in  the  world  alone, 
To  bear  my  part,  and  to  walk  its  ways; 
Over  my  head  will  the  dark  years  run, 
But  after  a  time  they  will  all  be  done, 
And  then,  reaching  out  for  your  hand  on  high, 
I   will   climb   to   your  heart — to  your   welcoming 
gaze — 

Love,  by  and  by. 


TWILIGHT  IN  AUGUST 

Cloud-islands,  dimly  blue  and  rimmed  with  gold, 
Are  drifting  dreamily  along  the  west, 
The  sultry  sun  an  hour  since  swooned  to  rest 

Beyond  the  pathless  prairie  aureoled ; 


92  The  Lute  of  Life 


No  sound  is  heard  saving  the  manifold 
Small  voices  of  the  dusk  that  manifest 
Their  multitudinous  delights  with  zest 

Among  the  dewy  trees  and  grasses  cold. 

The  katydids,  those  prophets  of  the  groves, 
At  twilight  take  their  noisy  taborets 

And  warn  us  of  the  near  approach  of  frost ; 
The  crickets  in  the  hedges  lisp  their  loves 
In  moody  diapasons  of  regrets, 
As  if  their  petty  passions  had  been  crossed. 


WITH  THE  DOCTOR 

"Mother,  make  room  in  the  bed  for  me," 

A  shivering  child  in  the  garret  cried, 
As  the  plague  swept  up  like  a  crimson  sea 

To  his  face  so  faded  and  hollow-eyed. 
Into  her  lifted  and  withered  arms 

He  crept,  and  there  on  her  wasted  breast 
Was  cradled  away  from  the  world's  alarms, 

To  the  dreamless  calm  of  a  perfect  rest. 

It  mellowed  my  heart  like  a  shower  of  prayers, 

When  the  morning  rose  with  a  lurid  glare 
On  the  empty  town,  and  I  climbed  the  stairs 

And  gazed  on  the  pale,  cold  sleepers  there. 
As  I  galloped  away  with  a  stifling  sigh 

From  the  pest-house  gates,  I  fashioned  this  plea, 
With  a  sad  face  fixed  on  the  sunless  sky, 

"Thus,  Father,  O  Father,  make  room  for  me." 


MY  FIRST  BOOK 


They  sent  it  through  the  mail  to  me  — 

A  darling  duodecimo, 
Full-gilt  and  bound  so  daintily. 


The  Lute  of  Life  93 


Just  how  my  pulses  leapt  to  see 

Its  pretty  page,  you  ne'er  shall  know — 
They  sent  it  through  the  mail  to  me. 

Of  all  the  bonnie  books  that  be, 

My  book — it  made  the  finest  show, 
Full-gilt  and  bound  so  daintily. 

I  spread  it  proudly  on  my  knee, 

With  trembling  hand  and  cheek  aglow — 
(They  sent  it  through  the  mail  to  me). 

And  all  the  critics  did  agree 

The  book  was  choice,  and  sure  to  go; 
Full-gilt  and  bound  so  daintily. 

Cigars,  I  think,  are  best  to  free 

One  of  the  blues,  when  sales  are  slow. 
They  sent  it  through  the  mail  to  me, 
Full-gilt  and  bound  so  daintily. 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

Upon  the  bleak  November  hills 
A  solitary  bluebird  trills 
His  latest  song, — and  far  along 
The  russet  upland  loudly  rings 
The  lay  the  sturdy  woodman  sings. 

Beyond  the  pasture's  hazel  edge, 
From  out  the  hollow's  tangled  sedge, 
The  quail  upsprings  on  whirring  wings, 
And  down  the  stubble  flutters  fast 
Before  the  hunter's  heartless  blast. 

From  out  a  moss-grown  sugar-trough 
A  lonesome  rabbit  gallops  off 
Across  the  woods  and  solitudes, 


94 The  Lute  of  Life 

That  rustle  to  the  slightest  stir 
Of  dropping  leaf  and  acorn-burr. 

In  lazy  aldermanic  guise 
The  yellow-breasted  pawpaw  lies 
So  snugly  hid  the  leaves  amid 
That  scarce  a  schoolboy's  eager  eye 
Can  find  it  as  he  saunters  by. 

In  lines  that  waver  and  converge, 

The  puzzled  wild  ducks  southward  surge 

The  livelong  day, — while  far  away 

A  circling  hawk  is  seen  to  swim 

Along  the  twilight's  amber  rim. 

The  blue-jays  on  the  windy  oak 
Hold  joyless  jabber  thro'  the  smoke 
Of  these  dim  days; — while  faintly  strays 
From  orchard  haunts  and  leafless  groves 
The  murmur  of  the  patient  doves. 

Beyond  the  river's  fringe  of  mist 
The  wild  vines  climb  and  intertwist 
Their  amorous  shoots,  rich-hung  with  fruits 
That  froth  with  wine  so  ripe  and  fair 
The  fairies  fill  their  flagons  there. 

Within  the  forest  brown  and  seared, 
To-day  no  harsher  sound  is  heard 
Than  lisps  of  rills,  and  timorous  trills 
Of  birds  that  seek  a  shelter  from 
The  surly  winter  soon  to  come. 

It  were  as  if  some  sudden  shock 
Had  stopped  the  wheels  of  Nature's  clock 
An  instant,  ere  the  flying  year 
Sent  forth  his  trumpeters  to  blow 
The  signals  of  approaching  snow. 


The  Lute  of  Life 95 

O  glorious  Indian  Summer  time ! 
Where  is  the  country,  where  the  clime, 
To  match  with  this?    O  land  of  bliss, — 
O  land  of  love  and  light  and  flowers! 
God  made  it  last,  and  made  it  ours. 


THE  OLD  MILL 

The  morning1  rose  bright  on  the  clover-clad  hill, 

And  lightly  the  breezes  went  by, 
As  I  took  the  old  path  leading  down  to  the  mill, 

That  stood  where  the  bluffs  beetle  high ; 
The  path  leading  down  by  the  steep  to  the  strand, 

Where  I  loitered  a  lad  in  my  mirth, 
When  life  was  a  beautiful  rainbow  that  spanned 

The  loveliest  valley  of  earth. 

The  bluebird  still  swung  on  the  sycamore  boughs, 

The  sandpiper  rode  on  the  wave, 
And  still  to  the  pebble-paved   ford  came  the  cows, 

At  noonday,  to  drink  and  to  lave; 
The  dam  was  nigh  down,  yet  the  cataract  fell 

O'er  the  ledge  with  a  plunge  and  a  roar, 
That  seemed  to  my  heart,  in  its  tumult,  to  tell 

Of  the  halcyon  summers  of  yore. 

The  rock  was  still  there  where  we  dived  in  the  tide, 

And  the  sands  where  we  stretched  in  the  sun, 
But  the  many  gay  fellows  that  played  at  our  side 

Had  gone  from  the  valley,  each  one; 
The  old  fishing-log  it  had  floated  away, 

And  over  the  crumbling  canoe 
The  paddles  were  locked,  in  a  dream  of  decay, 

Where  the  mold  and  the  rank  mosses  grew. 

By  the  dust-girdled  doorway,  where  gabbled  the  geese, 

And  the  pilfering  swine  used  to  stray, 
The  grass  had  grown  up  in  an  emerald  fleece 


96  The  Lute  of  Life 


That  lovingly  mantled  the  way ; 
I  saw  not  the  brown  little  barefooted  maid 

Trip  down  the  long  path  to  the  spring, 
I  heard  not  the  sound  of  her  song  in  the  glade, 

Nor  the  light-hearted  laugh  at  the  swing. 

The  mill  was  as  mute  as  the  miller  who  lies 

In  his  green-curtained  cot  on  the  hill, — 
And  I  thought,  as  the  tears  gathered  into  my  eyes, 

That  the  dead  had  come  back  to  the  mill ; 
That  I  saw  the  old  wagons  roll  up  with  their  grist, 

And  again  heard  the  rumble  and  roar 
Of  the  wheels, — but,   alas !   it  was  only  a  mist 

Falling  over  my  senses, — no  more! 

Ah,  the  dust-covered  miller !  near  twenty  long  years 

Have  flown  since  he  took  his  last  toll; 
His  heart,  when  he  died,  was  as  sound  as  his  burrs, 

And  as  white  as  his  flour,  was  his  soul ; 
Still  the  wraith  of  him  stands  at  the  low  batten-door, 

And  his  laughter  comes  back  from  the  past ; 
Still  the  sound  of  his  footstep  is  heard  on  the  floor, 

Tho'  the  mill 's  but  a  wreck  in  the  blast. 


TO  THE  MARCH  MOON 

O  moon  of  March!  what  seest  thou 

But  dead  leaves,  still?    No  bursting  bud 
Breaks  into  bloom  on  any  bough 

In  all  the  bare,   unbreathing  wood. 

O  sweet  March  moon ! 
Canst  thou  not  woo  the  bloomy  brood 

To  don  their  kirtles,  pink  and  white, 
And,  in  the  upland  solitude, 

Come  out  to-night — come  out  to-night? 

O  moon  of  March !  come  down,  come  down,- 
Perchance  a  new  Endymion  lies 


The  Lute  of  Life  97 


On  yonder  hill,  by  yonder  town, 
With  peerless  lips  and  perfect  eyes. 
O  fair  March  moon ! 

Forsake  the  dull  eternal  skies 
For  just  a  hasty  swallow-flight, 

In  answer  to  a  lover's  cries, — 
Come  down  to-night,  come  down  to-night! 

O  moon  of  March !     O  lady-moon, 

High-throned  above  the  wreathing  mist! 
Come  down  in  silver-silken  shoon, 

Come  down  with  starlight  round  thy  wrist, 

O  pale  March  moon ! 
What  tho'  no  shepherd  keep  his  tryst 

Like  that  sweet  lad  on  Latmos'  height, 
Yet  there  be  "lips  that  should  be  kissed," — 

Then  come  to-night,  then  come  to-night! 

0  moon  of  March !  so  proud,  so  cold, 
If  thus  thou  heedest  not  my  prayer, 

1  dare  to  brand  thee  as  a  bold, 
Night-walking  wanton  of  the  air; — 

O  vain  March  moon ! 
Henceforth  I  hate  thy  frozen  glare, 

Thy  loveless  and  illusive  light, 
And  so  I  plead  in  my  despair, 

Come  not  to-night — come  not  to-night! 


KIDNAPED 

And  in  the  dreadful  dream  I  had, 
Methought  my  little  lisping  lad 
By  rude  and  ruffian  hands  was  torn 
From  me,  and  I  was  left  forlorn. 
The  morning  broke — the  sunlight  crept 
Upon  his  white  face  as  he  slept 
In  marble  silence  undefined, — 
Some  angel  had  kidnaped  my  child. 

7 


9$ The  Lute  of  Life 

A  NIGHT  IN  JUNE 

Upon  the  cooling  summer  grass  the  dark 
Falls  lightly,  and  the  panting  violet 
Uplifts  its  purple  lip  and  lash  of  jet 

To  sip  the  slow-descending  dews.    The  lark 

Is  softly  sleeping,  pillowed  in  an  ark 

Of  sighing  grasses,  like  some  old  regret 
Couched  in  the  bosom  of  an  anchoret, 

Amid  dead  loves  that  rattle  stiff  and  stark. 

The  crooked  moon  is  peering  thro'  the  pines, 
And  checkering  the  lawn  with  leaves  of  light, 

And  belting  all  the  dim  fields  with  broad  lines 

That  stretch  like  silver  ribbons  through  the  night ; 

Stars  on  the  grass,  and  fire-flies  on  the  vines, 
And  sorrow  in  the  breast  of  every  wight. 


WHEN  WE  THREE  MEET 
K  c.,  M.) 

When  we  three  meet,  as  meet  we  may, 
And  meet  we  must,  some  after-day, 
What  keener  sense  of  joy  can  be 
Accorded  unto  men  than  we 
Shall  feel  along  our  pulses  play  ? 

If  time  hath  turned  our  temples  gray, 
What  then,  shall  we  not  still  be  gay, 
Be  still  as  fresh  and  flush  and  free, 
When  we  three  meet  ? 

We  bear  apart — drift  wide  astray, 
Each  in  his  own  appointed  way, 
Like  ships  that  sever  out  at  sea, — 
We  bear  apart,  but  all  agree 
That  care  shall  have  a  holiday 
When  we  three  meet. 


The  Lute  of  Life  99 

RILEY'S  RESPONSE 
(M.,  cv  R.) 

When  we  three  meet  ?    Ah !  friend  of  mine 
Whose  verses  well  and  flow  as  wine, — 
My  thirsting  fancy  thou  dost  fill 
With  draughts  delicious,  sweeter  still 
Since  tasted  by  those  lips  of  thine. 

I  pledge  thee,  through  the  chill  sunshine 
Of  autumn,  with  a  warmth  divine, 
Thrilled  through  as  only  I  shall  thrill 
When  we  three  meet. 

I  pledge  thee,  if  we  fast  or  dine, 
We  yet  shall  loosen,  line  by  line, 
Old  ballads,  and  the  blither  trill 
Of  our-time  singers — for  there  will 
Be  with  us  all  the  Muses  nine 
When  we  three  meet. 

— JAMES  WHITCOMB 


A  RED  ANARCHIST 
(AifTER  ANACREON) 

"Give  me  more  love  or  more  disdain," 
So  ran  an  early  bard's  refrain; 

And  he  was  wise.    For  Love,  I  wist, 

Is  always  a  red  anarchist, 
Who  brooks  not  any  galling  law 
That  moody  moralists  can  draw. 

Love  begs  no  pardon — craves  no  grace 
Of  court  or  clan — but,  face  to  face, 
He  fronts  his  foe  with  proud  disdain, 
And,  laughing,  lights  his  torch  again, 
As  one  who  moves  unterrified, 
Because  he  feels  God  at  his  side. 


ioo  The  Lute  of  Life 


Love's  eyes  are  keen,  and  quick  to  see 

And  claim  his  own,  where'er  it  be, 
In  spite  of  social  masks, — in  spite 
Of  petty  codes  that  cramp  and  blight,- 

In  spite  of  every  bar  or  ban 

That  chills  the  warm  heart  of  the  man. 

Love  stores  his  fatal  dynamite 

In  eyes  made  beautiful  and  bright 
With  that  reciprocal  desire 
That  gloweth  like  a  steady  fire ; — 

And  so  it  is,  I  still  insist, 

That  Love  is  a  red  anarchist. 


A  RHYME  OF  BROWN  OCTOBER 

Brown  is  the  leaf  on  the  black-oak  tree, 

And  over  the  fields  beyond  the  town, 
As  far  to  the  north  as  the  eye  can  see, 

The  world  is  turning  from  green  to  brown ; 
Brown  is  the  East,  brown  is  the  West, 

Brown  is  the  South  where  the  pigeons  fly, 
Brown  is  the  down  on  Bob  White's  breast, 

But  browner  than  all  is  my  sweetheart's  eye. 

Brown  is  the  back  of  the  burdened  bee, 

In  the  twilight  time  of  the  changing  year; 
Brown  is  the  cider  that  trickles  free, 

And  brown  is  the  gourd  that  is  lying  near ; 
Brown  is  the  nut  in  the  hazel  shell, 

Swinging  low  in  the  sunburnt  air ; 
Brown  is  the  acorn's  empty  bell, 

But  browner  than  all  is  my  sweetheart's  hair. 

Brown  is  the  pawpaw  flecked  with  frost, 
Brown  is  the  fur  on  the  prowling  fox, 

Brown  is  the  floss  that  is  frayed  and  lost 
When  the  corn  is  husked  from  the  shining  shocks ; 


The  Lute  of  Life  101 


Brown  is  the  face  of  the  farmer  boy, 

Who  follows  the  furrows  far  from  town; 

Brown  is  my  heart  with  the  heat  of  joy, 
For  the  name  of  the  lass  I  love  is — Brown! 


ALONE  AT  THE  FARM 


As  I  sit  alone  in  the  twilight  gray, 

Under  the  sound  of  the  April  rain, 
My  thoughts  go  back  to  an  Easter  Day 

Of  the  long-ago,  and  I  listen  again 

(But  listen  in  vain!) 
For  the  shouts  of  the  boys  who  used  to  swarm 

Out  of  the  neighboring  town,  like  plagues, 
To  spend  a  glorious  day  at  the  farm, 

With  the  boys  of  the  country,  coloring  eggs. 

And  I,  poor  fool!  was  as  gruff  as  a  bear, 

For  I  never  could  stand  their  noise  —  but  Jane, 
Sweet  soul  !  she  always  welcomed  them  there, 

With  a  love  that  her  dear  heart  could  not  feign- 

(  And  the  boys  loved  Jane  !  ) 
And  many  a  time  I  heard  her  say 

(In  the  after-years  ere  she  paled  and  died) 
That,  God  permitting,  on  Easter  Day 

She  would  clasp  their  hands  on  the  other  side. 

So  the  years  went  by,  and  the  boys  were  grown, 

And  the  grass  waved  high  in  the  orchard  lane,- 
And  down  where  the  sounds  of  war  were  blown 

The  lads  of  the  Easter-time  lay  slain; 

And  oh,  the  pain  ! 
And  oh,  the  sobbing  —  the  ceaseless  moan  — 

The  long  sad  nights,  and  the  vigils  vain 
Of  an  old  man  drooping  and  dreaming  alone 

Of  days  that  never  come  back  again! 


io2 The  Lute  of  Life 

THE  ISLAND  OF  REIL 

Read  before  the  Alumni  Association  of  the  University 
of  Illinois,  June  4,  1878. 

[It  is  a  fact  now  well-established  by  pathological  investigation 
that  the  faculty  or  power  of  speech  is  located  in  a  certain 
part  of  the  brain,  designated  by  anatomists  as  the  Island 
of  Reil.  A  disease  of  the  brain  situated  in  this  particular 
spot  is  known  to  interfere  with  and  even  destroy  the  power 
of  remembering  and  articulating  words.  I  have  chosen  my 
subject  at  the  suggestion  of  a  friend.] 

Have  ye  heard  of  the  wonderful  Island  of  Reil, 

That  budless,  birdless,  blossomless  clime, 

Where  purple  streams  run — where  no  stars,  no  sun, 

Have  flashed  on  its  face  since  the  dawning  of  time  ? 

Have  ye  read  of  that  cityless,  cloudless  land, 

That  loveless,  lustreless  land  that  lies 

Unkiss'd  by  the  amorous  breath  of  the  skies, 

That  land  that  is  grand  as  an  Eden  is  grand? 

Ye  answer  me  nay, — then  list  to  my  lay, 

While  the  mists  that  envelop  it  vanish  away, 

While  I,  in  my  revel  of  rhyme,  will  reveal 

The  tales  that  are  told  of  the  Island  of  Reil. 

No  footsteps  e'er  fall  on  that  fabulous  shore, 

The  darkness  of  death  and  dead  silence  are  there ; 

But  the  crimson-lipped  tides,  sweeping  out  evermore, 

Are  freighted  with  vessels  strong,  stately,  and  fair; 

Strong  vessels  that  ply  without  rudder  or  oar, 

Tall  ships  that  are  sailless,  black  boats  that  come  down 

In  silence  by  never  a  thorp  or  a  town — 

In  silence,  where  beautiful  fields  never  gleam — 

In  silence,  where  forests  their  leaves  never  shed — 

In  silence  as  dead  as  the  ghost  of  a  dream, 

Or  dead  as  a  lofty  white  hope  that  is  dead. 

No  banners  flow  out  over  turreted  walls, 

By  river  or  lakelet ;  no  low  water-falls, 

No  laughter,  no  murmur,  no  shrines  for  the  gods, 

No  music  is  there,  and  no  roseate  air, 

No  clouds  sun-kiss'd,  no  coffin-prest  clods, 


The  Lute  of  Life  103 

No  priest  at  his  chancel,  with  paean  or  prayer ; 

No  summer  smiles  out  from  its  garb  of  sweet  green. 

No  winter  in  that  mystic  island  is  seen ; 

But  a  rapture  unchanging  each  mortal  must  feel 

Who  has  heard  of  the  marvelous  Island  of  Reil. 

'T  is  a  place — 't  is  a  realm — out  of  reach,  out  of  sight, 

And  the  snowy-white  palace  that  stretches  its  spire 

All  sunward  above  and  around  it,  is  one 

Of  the  stateliest  temples  seen  under  the  sun — 

Of  the  lordliest  temples  that  men  may  admire; 

'T  is  a  place,  't  is  a  realm,  where  each  man  has  a  right — 

A  limitless  license  of  love  or  desire ; 

'T  is  a  land  that  is  fruitful  of  words  and  no  more, 

Words  leap  like  rich  lilies  to  life  on  its  shore — 

Words  white  as  the  wraith  of  a  love  that  is  lost, 

Words  dark  as  the  brow  of  a  soul  tempest-tost, 

Words  soft  as  a  feather  of  frost  in  the  sun, 

Words  cruel  as  steel  in  the  throat  of  a  gun, 

Words  cold  as  the  ice  on  the  temple  of  Dian, 

Words  warm  as  the  melodies  hymned  upon  Zion, 

Words  sad  as  the  grief  o'er  a  sepulchred  hope, 

Words  dear  as  the  name  of  sweet  Christ  to  the  Pope ; 

Ay,  words,  and  words  only,  spring  up  into  flower, 

Spring  up  into  fruit,  on  this  nebulous  isle ; 

As  I  sit  all  alone,  I  marvel,  I  smile, 

At  this  wonderful  freak  of  Omnipotent  Power, — 

I  laugh  in  my  lightness,  laugh  loud  in  my  zeal, 

In  my  dreamy,  dim  song  of  the  Island  of  Reil. 

Far  back  in  the  white  early  spring  of  delight, 
When  the  pale  Galilean  press'd  foot  to  the  sod ; 
When  men  apostolic  strode  forth  with  their  God ; 
When  the  halt  was  made  whole  and  the  blind  received 

sight; 

When  the  desolate  dead,  by  a  single  word  said, 
Rose  up  from  bleak  tombs  that  were  burst  by  a  word — 
From  the  fetters  of  death,  that  were  snapp'd  like  a 

thread 


104  The  Lute  of  Life 

By  a  syllabled  sound  from  the  lips  of  the  Lord ! — 
Now  silver-browed  Science,  re-sainted  since  then, 
His  rimy,  rough  lips  to  the  quick  ear  of  men, 
One  fact  has  revealed,  in  a  whisper  so  clear 
That  the  turbulent,  populous  Earth  must  hear, — 
And  the  secret  is  this,  that  no  word  ever  came 
From  the  mouth  of  a  being,  in  woe  or  in  weal, 
In  the  triumph  of  joy  or  the  torment  of  flame, 
That  sprang  not  to  life  in  the  Island  of  Reil. 

When  the  Swan  of  sweet  Avon  touched  hand  to  the 

lyre — 

Touched  hand  till  its  stormy  strings  melted  with  fire, 
Touched  hand  till  the  dizzy  earth  reeled  with  delight, — 
Sang  songs  that  were  fed  with  the  wine  of  desire, 
Songs  steeped  in  the  streams  of  his  infinite  might ; 
When  his  children  of  fancy — oh,  marvelous  throng! — 
He  embalmed  in  the  lustre  of  drama  and  song ; 
When  the  doves  of  his  genius  flew  higher  and  higher; 
When  he  took  his  great  heart  to  Anne  Hathaway's 

door, 

The  grace  of  her  innocent  love  to  implore, 
He  went  like  a  man,  and  he  wooed  like  a  knight, 
Like  a  conqueror  won,  in  his  honor  bedight ; — 
He  won  her,  but  how  ?    Why,  the  words  that  he  spoke 
In  the  wealth  of  his  love,  were  as  strong  as  the  oak ; 
Anne  Hathaway  listened — what  maid  had  done  less  ? — 
She  looked  at  great  Shakespeare  and  answered  him 

"Yes!" 

She  answered  him  "Yes,"  come  woe  or  come  weal, 
And  the  precious  word  came  from  the  Island  of  Reil. 

Somewhere  in  the  West,  in  the  times  that  are  fled, 

A  woodsman  was  born,  with  a  crown  on  his  head, — 

A  crown  not  of  jewels  or  gold,  but  a  crown 

Where  the  shield  of  true  worth  was  the  seal  of  renown ; 

No  blood  of  great  kings  in  his  arteries  run, 

His  father  was  humble,  his  mother  she  spun — 

She  spun,  little  dreaming,  perchance,  that  her  son, 


The  Lute  of  Life  105 

In  the  strength  of  his  years,  would  arise  like  a  star, 
Which  the  wondering  nations  would  hail  from  afar — 
She  spun,  little  dreaming,  perchance,  that  the  name 
Of  her  boy  would  be  thundered  in  trumpets  of  fame, 
From  the  North  to  the  South,  from  the  East  to  the 

West, 

That  the  name  of  her  child  would  forever  be  blest. 
Long,  long  are  the  years  he  has  lain  in  the  grave, 
The  foe  of  oppression,  the  friend  of  the  slave, — 
Great  Lincoln,  so  stately,  so  stainless,  so  brave ! 
He  spoke,  and  the  words  that  went  forth  from  his  lips 
Were  precious  as  balm-freighted  Orient  ships, — 
He  spoke,  and  the  fetters  on  spirit  and  heel 
Fell  loose-  at  a  word  from  the  Island  of  Reil. 

Now  comrades,  old-timers,  go  back  thro'  the  years, 
Tear  off  the  cold  shroud  from  the  pearly  white  ten, 
Bedew  the  pale  dead  with  the  glory  of  tears — 
Who  knows  but  the  ghosts  of  those  years  will  come 

back, 

Dim  angels  of  love,  o'er  the  desolate  track, 
And  revisit  the  lives  of  their  children  again? 
In  the  beauty  and  dawn  of  the  decade  that 's  gone, 
In  the  glow  of  my  fancy,  I  greet  you  once  more, 

0  comrades,  I  see  you  in  stairway  and  door, 
In  the  dews  of  the  spring,  in  the  dusk  of  the  fall, 

1  hail  ye,  my  comrades,  in  campus  and  hall ; 
I  see  the  old  faces,  I  hear  the  old  songs, 
And  those  old  agitations  of  fanciful  wrongs, 
Our  riots,  our  revels,  our  murmurs,  and  mirth, 
Come  back  like  the  sweetest  old  satires  of  earth. 
O  speak  to  me,  spirit  of  years  that  have  been ! 
Where  now  are  the  boys — I  beg  pardon,  the  men — 
That  never  come  back  to  their  Alma  again  ? 

On  the  breast  of  great  lakes  they  are  striking  the  oars, 

Some  climbing  tall  billows  on  perilous  seas, 

Some  lost  in  dim  cities  on  far-away  shores, 

Some  blown  about  earth  like  a  wandering  breeze ; 

Some  wearing  out  honor  and  truth  from  their  breast, 


io6  The  Lute  of  Life 

In  the  struggle  for  life,  in  the  wilds  of  the  West ; 
In  the  isles  of  the  sun — in  the  kingdoms  of  snow — 
We  hail  our  old  comrades  wherever  we  go  ; 
In  the  gleam  of  grey  marbles  some  dear  ones  we  greet, 
Borne  down  in  the  flight  of  the  turbulent  years, 
Swept  down  thro'  the  doorway  of  death,  ere  the  heat 
And  the  storm  of  the  struggle  with  life  had  begun — 
Dead  comrades,  we  turn  to  you,  turn  to  each  one, 
In  the  holy  white  silence  of  desolate  tears. 
And  one  we  remember — O  Time,  in  thy  flight, 
One  spirit  recall  from  the  regions  of  light 
To  smile  on  us,  bless  us,  be  with  us  this  night, — 
Great  Baker,  strong-souled  as  the  streams  of  the  sea, 
Tall-minded  and  pure,  so  knightly,  so  grand, 
We  rise  to  you,  reach  to  you,  stretch  you  a  hand, 
So  dear  to  each  heart  as  a  father  could  be ! 


My  light  song  is  ended — why  linger  and  wait? — 
Bend  low,  Alma  Mater,  press  lip  to  our  own, 
Give  us  back  to  the  world,  to  the  work  to  be  done 
Down  the  path  of  the  years,  in  the  highway  of  fate — 
Why  loiter,  like  Adam  and  Eve,  at  the  gate? 
Our  joys  are  behind  us,  our  griefs  are  before, 
But  part  we  with  laughter,  brave  hearts,  as  of  yore, — 
God  bless  you — GOOD-BY  ! — O  comrades,  I  feel 
That 's  the  bitterest  word  in  the  Island  of  Reil ! 


EUGENE  FIELD 

As  the  song  of  a  mother  long  dead 

Floats  up  thro'  the  mists  of  the  years 
From  the  side  of  the  low  trundle-bed, 

Where  mingled  our  laughter  and  tears- 
So  we  listen  to-night,  not  in  vain, 

And  over  the  years  that  are  flown 
We  catch  every  lingering  strain 

Of  one  whom  we  loved  as  our  own. 


The  Lute  of  Life  107 


As  the  notes  of  the  skylark  are  heard 

Dripping  out  of  the  rose-tinted  skies, 
Long  after  the  vanishing  bird 

Has  passed  from  the  reach  of  our  eyes — 
So  the  voice  of  the  singer  we  love,** 

The  song  so  enchantingly  rare, 
Comes   echoing  back   from  above, 

From  the  heavens  that  welcomed  it  there. 

As  a  shell  that  is  torn  from  the  sea 

Forever  and  ever  sings  on 
Of  the  waters,  wherever  they  be, 

Tho'  multiplied  ages  be  gone — 
So,  -deep  in  our  spirits  abide 

The  sound  of  each  cherished  refrain; 
The  minstrel  may  pass  from  our  side, 

But  the  song  that  he  sang  will  remain. 

The  temples  upbuilded  by  hands 

Will  crumble  at  last  and  decay, 
For  the  best  are  but  based  upon  sands 

As  frail  and  unstable  as  they; 
But  the  germ  of  a  fancy  or  thought 

In  the  soil  of  the  soul  that  is  sown, 
With  life-everlasting  is  fraught, 

And  its  beauty  is  never  outgrown. 

One  single  sweet  song  given  birth 

In  the  soul  of  a  poet,  contains 
Greater  wealth  than  the  Klondikes  of  earth 

Ever  veiled  in  their  obdurate  veins ; 
Less  noble  a  prince  with  his  plume 

In  the  pomp  of  some  lordly  emprise, 
Than  a  father  who  sings  in  the  gloom 

By  the  crib  where  his  curly-head  lies. 

And  so  to  the  gentle  'Gene  Field 
Our  tenderest  homage  we  pay; 
In  him  was  the  spirit  revealed 


io8 The  Lute  of  Life 

That  was  dear  unto  Christ,  in  His  day; 
His  heart  was  the  home  of  the  child, 

And  childhood  the  soul  of  his  art — 
Where  little  ones  prattled  and  smiled, 

He  lingered  and  listened  apart. 

The  joys  of  the  children  were  his, 

The  needs  of  their  natures  he  knew, 
And  they  leaned  at  his  knees  for  a  kiss 

As  lilies  athirst  for  the  dew; 
His  lullabies  sealed  up  their  eyes 

As  he  peopled  their  fancies  with  dreams 
Of  the  winds  and  the  stars  and  the  skies, 

And  the  fairies  that  haunt  the  moonbeams. 

But  gone  is  the  light  of  his  face, 

And  hushed  are  his  music  and  mirth; 
A  shadow  now  sits  in  the  place 

That  anchored  his  heart  to  the  earth; 
Tho'  broken  his  harp,  let  us  pray 

That  high  in  the  palace  of  God 
The  master  is  crooning  to-day 

To  "Wynken  and  Blynken  and  Nod." 

WAKING  AND  SLEEPING 

The  open  eye 
May  scan  the  sky, 
And  stray  the  blue 

From  star  to  star; 
But  eyes  that  close 
In  soft  repose, 
Can  traverse  realms 

Remoter  far. 

The  eye  unhid 
By  lash  or  lid, 
Can  gird  the  ocean 
With  a  glance ; 


The  Lute  of  Life  109 

But  eyes  locked  tight 
In  sleep,  take  flight 
Beyond  the  waking 
World's  expanse. 

The  eye,  by  day, 

Can  soar  away 

And  grasp  the  green  earth 

In  its  span; 
But  folded  eyes 
Can  pierce  the  skies 
And  their  diviner 

Secrets  scan. 


TO  JOHN  URI  LLOYD 
(AUTHOR  OF  "ETIDORHPA") 

O  friend  of  mine,  your  genius  throws 

A  search-light  over  truths  so  vast, 
We  waken  from  our  long  repose 

Amidst  the  rubbish  of  the  past, 
To  view  the  shining  altitudes 

Of  human  thought,  as  you  unscroll 
The  tracings  of  those  lofty  moods 

That  hold  possession  of  your  soul. 

Till  now  we  have  been  satisfied 

To  take  things  wholly  as  they  seem; 
But  you  have  drawn  the  veil  aside, 

And  torn  the  drapery  from  the  dream; 
With  one  swift  stroke  you  break  the  shell 

Of  ancient  fallacies,  and  show 
The  subtle  potencies  that  dwell 

Still  dormant  in  the  embryo. 

Whence  comes  the  light  we  question  not, 

But  bow  our  heads  in  reverence 
To  that  High  Source  which  doth  allot 


no  The  Lute  of  Life 


To  you  the  gracious  eminence 
Of  pouring  into  blinded  eyes 

The  visions,  meted  unto  you, 
Of  those  mysterious  destinies 

Which  we  are  madly  rushing  to. 

The  messages  that  you  have  brought 

To  waiting  Age  and  warring  Youth, 
If  sad  or  glad,  it  matters  naught, 

We  court  no  quarrel  with  the  truth ; 
If  at  the  core  of  life  there  lies 

Only  the  frozen  sea  of  Force, 
Be  brave,  O  Soul !  some  sweet  surprise 

May  still  be  hidden  at  the  source. 


DUSK 

Night  pours  the  cooling  ashes  of  the  Day 
Into  her  vast  and  shadow-wreathen  urn, — 

And  then  the  mourning  Moon  comes  forth  to  pray, 
Leading  her  orphan  stars,  who  kneel  in  turn. 


ONE  GOLDEN  HAIR 

(FOUND  IN   AN   OLD  VOLUME   OF   BURNS) 

A  woman's  hair !  a  single  strand ! 
And  yet  a  most  fantastic  thought 
Flashed  o'er  me,  as  my  ringers  caught 

And  drew  it  forth  across  my  hand. 

Like  to  some  living  thing  that  turns, 
Instinctive,  from  the  spoiler's  touch, 
The  hair  curled  upward  from  my  clutch, 
And  sought  again  the  page  of  Burns, — 
A  page  whereon  the  bard  had  told 
A  woman's  charms,  in  verse  divine : — 
"Her  hair  was  like  the  links  o'  gold, 
Her  cheeks  like  lilies  dipped  in  wine." 


The  Lute  of  Life  in 


A  woman's  hair !  a  single  shred ! 

A  golden  fibre  gently  torn 

From  some  proud  beauty  to  adorn 
The  book  of  love  wherein  she  read, — 
Wherein  she  caught  the  flash  and  fire 

Of  purest  passion  ever  given 
To  sanctify  a  poet's  lyre 

And  lure  a  panting  heart  to  heaven. 

A  golden  hair !  a  slender  thing ! 

A  soft  and  silken  coil !    And  yet, 

In  death,  it  still  would  pay  a  debt 
Of  love  unto  the  poet-king. 
This  single  hair — this  twining  hair — 

A  sweeter,  nobler  tribute  pays 
To  him  who  sang  beside  the  Ayr, 

Than  any  human  lip  can  phrase. 


THE  WRITER 

Of  all  the  arts  in  which  the  wise  excel, 
Nature's  chief  masterpiece  is  writing  well. 

— BUCKINGHAM. 

That  man  is  master  of  the  noblest  art 

Who,  with  a  sorcery  of  speech,  has  power 
To  draw  from  out  the  dormant  soul  its  flower 

Of  warm  and  perfect  passion,  or  to  start 

With  floods  of  song  the  cascades  of  the  heart 
To  plunging  cataracts,  amidst  whose  shower 
Of  spattering  spray  a  thousand  rainbows  bower 

And  beautify  our  lives  in  every  part. 

He  stands  aloft,  a  lighthouse  on  the  heights 
Of  human  history.     The  boiling  seas 

Blacken  beneath  him,  but,  serene,  he  pours 
A  steady  splendor  down  the  roaring  nights, 
And,  through  the  straits  of  two  eternities, 
lightens  our  sea-path  unto  stormless  shores. 


ii2  The  Lute  of  Life 

OCTOBER 

Upon  the  dreamy  upland  aureoled, 

I  saw  the  sombre  artist,  Autumn,  stand, 
Ghostlike,  against  the  dim  and  shadowy  land, 

Limning  the  hills  with  purple  and  with  gold ; 

And  while  I  gazed  a  mighty  mist  uprolled, 
As  at  the  touch  of  some  enchanter's  wand, — 
And  all  the  woods  by  sudden  winds  were  fanned, 

And  darkness  fell  upon  the  amber  wold. 

Out  of  the  frosty  north,  like  Indian  arrows, 
In  never-falt'ring  flight,  the  wild  ducks  flew ; 

And  from  the  windy  fields  the  summer  sparrows 
Reluctantly  their  feathery  tribes  withdrew, — 

As  from  the  heart  the  hopes  of  manhood  fly 

When  the  sad  winter  of  old  age  draws  nigh. 


A  HASTY  BURIAL 

Love  is  dead,  dear,  and  hereafter 
We  are  twain,  who  once  were  one; 

No  more  song  and  no  more  laughter — 
Dreams  are  over — doubts  are  done. 

Let  us  then  go  forth  together, 

Where  the  long,  cool  grasses  wave 

Through  the  golden  summer  weather, 
And  together  make  Love's  grave. 

He  was  fair,  but  he  was  fickle, 
And  he  madly  ran  his  race; 

(Gracious !  how  the  rains  will  trickle 
Through  his  hair  and  on  his  face!) 

Ah,  you  need  not  take  the  trouble 
So  to  mellow  down  the  clods ; 

Toss  him  in !  for  life  's  a  bubble 
At  the  best,  and  what 's  the  odds ! 


The  Lute  of  Life 113 

Nay !  we  '11  hardly  scatter  roses, 

If  you  please,  upon  the  spot ; 
Let  him  lie  there  where  he  dozes 

In  the  solitude,  forgot. 

Tears?    Ah,  how  can  you  respect  him? 

Sighs?  or  weep  for  him,  my  pet? 
Sorry  ?  then  we  '11  resurrect  him — 

Easy,  dear !  he 's  breathing  yet. 


THE  VOICES 

When  far  stars  sift  their  powdered  silver  through 
The  wavering  limes  along  the  avenue, — 

When  Summer  stands  in  roses  to  her  knees, 
And  sips  the  gracious  incense  of  her  trees, — 
When  cooling  shadows  muffle  dim  retreats, 
There  comes  a  voice — a  voice  that  whispers 

Keats. 

When  green  fields  turn  to  gray,  and  to  the  wood 

The  lone  quail  leads  the  remnant  of  her  brood, — 
When  southward  swings  the  sad,  uncertain  sun, 
And  streams  forget  to  riot  as  they  run, — 

When  rains  descend  and  winds  become  defiant, 

Before  our  vision  floats  the  wraith  of 

Bryant. 

When  driving  from  the  North  the  snows  begin 

To  build  their  walls,  and  close  their  captives  in, — 
When  gables  grumble  at  the  rising  blast, 
And  Winter  locks  his  icy  shackles  fast, — 

When  birds  seek  shelter  in  the  bending  fir, 

And  nights  grow  long,  we  dream  of 

Whittier. 

When  farm-boys  shout  behind  their  shining  plows, 
And  sudden  blackbirds  bluster  on  the  boughs, — 
8 


ii4  The  Lute  of  Life 

When  blossoms  star  the  sward,  and  down  the  glen 
The  wanton  redbud  shakes  her  plumes  again, — 
When  Nature's  laughter,  long  withheld,  returns 
To  warm  the  waking  world,  we  think  of 

Burns. 


A  DREAM  OF  BEAUTY 

I  muse  on  her  dark  eyes,  and  see  the  gloss 
Of  dewy  grapes  that  purple  in  the  gloom 

Of  amorous  gardens,  where  the  faint  winds  toss 
O'er  violet  reaches,  panting  with  perfume ; 

A  dream  of  fawns!  peering  with  passionate  glance 
Between  the  lindens  at  midsummer  dawn, 
When  love  awakens,  and  desire  is  on, 

And  piping  robins  hold  the  world  in  trance. 

I  dream  of  her  dark  hair,  and  feel  the  dusk 
Of  cooling  myrtles  in  the  twilight  vales 

Of  Tempe,  when  no  mellowing  moonbeams  husk 
The  shadows  from  the  shifting  nightingales ; 

A  vision  of  swift  ravens  heading  south 

Between  pomegranate  boughs  amidst  the  hills 
Of  Arcady,  what  time  the  summer  spills 

Its  kindling  kisses  on  the  lily's  mouth. 

I  sing  of  her  white  hands — two  dimpled  sprites 
More  tremulous  and  stainless  and  more  soft 

Than  rose-leaves  opening  in  midsummer  nights, 
By  moon-dawns,  in  the  deepest  woodland  croft ; 

A  vision  of  vain  hopes !  a  shimmering  mist 
Of  swan-down,  cincturing  each  lovely  limb 
Of  Mab's  hand-maidens,  when  the  warm  stars  trim 

Their  dewy  tresses  with  pale  amethyst. 

Then,  fancying  her  love,  I  hear  the  coo 

Of  doves  far-hidden  in  the  citron-groves 
Of  Hellas,  where  the  high  gods  came  to  woo, 


The  Lute  of  Life  115 


And  change  for  mortal,  their  immortal  loves ; 

A  vision  of  the  ripening  South — a  dream 
Of  loveliness  and  passion,  song  and  wine, 
And  Greek  girls  lolling  where  the  Bacchanal  vine 

Tipples  and  sips  the  summer's  amber  beam. 


HER  KNITTING  NEEDLES 

In  the  bureau's  bottom  drawer,  as  I  rummaged  there 

to-day, 

With  the  memory  of  other  times  aglow, 
I  found  the  knitting  needles  that  my  mother  tucked 

away, 

In  the  twilight  of  a  winter  long  ago ; 
They  were  tangled  in  the  fingers  of  a  wee  unfinished 

glove, 

And  when  I  stooped  and  touched  them  it  did  seem 
I  could  see  the  vanished  features  of  the  one  I  used  to 

love, 
In  the  cheery  chimney-corner  of  my  dream. 

O  the  little  shining  lances!  how  they  glittered  in  the 

light 

Of  the  cabin  where  my  mother  used  to  sit 
In  her  cozy,  cushioned  rocker  till  the  middle  of  the 

night, 

A-crooning  tender  ditties  as  she  knit; 
And  I  feel  my  feet  grow  warmer,  as  I  plod  across  the 

past, 

In  the  stockings  that  her  white  and  holy  hands 
In  their  feebleness  had  fashioned  ere  she  fell  asleep  at 

last 
And  was  borne  into  the  summer-litten  lands. 

No  trophies  ever  dangled  in  a  mediaeval  hall 
More  sacred  for  the  memories  they  hold, 

Than  these,  the  lowly  relics  of  the  saint  that  I  recall 
Thro'  the  twilight  of  the  tender  days  of  old : 


n6 The  Lute  of  Life 

Each  needle  is  a  talisman,  a  token,  a  delight, 
A  wand  that  lures  my  fancy  unaware 

From  the  prison  of  the  present,  and  its  shadow  infinite, 
To  my  cabin  home,  and  mother  knitting  there. 

THE  CRY  OF  MARGUERITE 

Ah,  lady  of  the  lily-hand  and  of  the  rosy  cheek, 

Ah,  lady  of  the  haughty  brow,  too  proud,  too  vain  to 
speak, 

What  though  your  face  be  like  a  saint's,  your  sym- 
metry divine, 

God  sees  the  scarlet  on  your  soul  as  plain  as  that  on 
mine. 

Ah,  lady  of  the  latticed  house,  between  my  sin  and 

yours 
Are  but  a  curtained  casement  and  a  suite  of  folding 

doors ; 

Your  feet  are  on  the  fender,  mine  on  the  flags,  you  see, 
But  our  guilty  souls  are  sisters,  and  they  're  keeping 

company. 

Ah,  lady  of  the  childless  house,  so  wise  and  so  discreet, 
Look  from  your  lofty  lattice  at  yon  picture  in  the 

street, — 
That  curled  and  perfumed  debauchee  is  paramour  of 

thine, 
And  the  little  barefoot  boy  you  see,  who  blacks  his 

boots,  is  mine. 

Yet  we  were  girls  together,  lady,  once  upon  a  time, 
And  all  the  world  was  sweet  and  pure  as  silver  bells 

that  chime; 
Our  life  was  but  a  pulse  of  love — a  lute-note  and  a 

rhyme — 
Before  the  crimson  of  our  lips  had  kissed  the  cups  of 

crime. 


The  Lute  of  Life  117 

Your  hair  was  dark  and  bountiful — your  eyes  were 

streams  of  light, 
That  leaped  and  laughed  and  quivered,  as  a  mountain 

torrent's  might; — 
My  tresses  were  a  mist  of  gold — my  eyes  were  deepest 

blue, 
That  trembled  in  their  beauty  like  the  starlight  on  the 

dew. 

But  the  tempter  came  and  blinded  us,  and  made  us  both 

his  prey; 
And  you  had  wealth,  and  I  had  not,  and  I  was  cast 

away, — 
Was  cast  away  to  hide  my  shame  among  the  brutal 

mass 
That  shift  along  the  road  to  death,  like  shadows  over 

glass. 

'T  was  then  you  spurned  me  from  your  side,  as  some- 
thing vile,  accurst, 

You — you — the  sister-sharer  of  my  folly  from  the  first ; 

But  I  loved  you  still,  and  pitied  you,  and  so  I  held  my 
tongue, 

And  kept  concealed  the  fatal  fleck  that  on  your  beauty 
clung. 

But  when  to-day  I  begged  you  for  a  pittance  for  my 

child, 
While  my  mother-heart  was  breaking,  and  my  brain 

was  running  wild, 
When  you  cut  me  with  your  cold  disdain,  and  turned 

me  from  your  door, 
God  help  my  woman's  weakness!     I  could  keep  the 

truth  no  more. 

And  now  you  see  me  as  I  am,  a  fragment  at  your  feet, 
Love's  cripple  on  a  broken  crutch,  who  once  was  Mar- 
guerite. 
Yet  nightly  on  my  knees  I  sink,  in  agony  unseen, 


n8  The  Lute  of  Life 


And  pray  that  He  will  pardon  me,  who  pardoned  Mag- 
dalene. 

But  hasten  down,  my  lady,  there  's  a  carriage  at  your 

gate; 
Your  husband  will  be  home  at  ten,  your  lover  can  not 

wait; 
Sure  he  '11  not  mind  one  curl  misplaced — one  ribbon, 

here  or  there: 
His  steeds  are  pawing  at  the  curb — O  hasten  down  the 

stair ! 

But  pray  indulge  a  sister's  glance,  the  while  you  flutter 

down 
Your  terrace-steps,  and  reach  to  him  the  fairest  hand 

in  town; 

The  game  you  play  is  perilous — let  no  mistake  be  made : 
The  penalty  of  sin  like  yours  is  sometimes  dearly  paid. 

Ah,  Lady  Lofty,  from  the  mire  of  shame  wherein  I 

stray, 
I  'd  not  exchange  my  guilt  for  yours  for  all  your  gold 

to-day. 
Not  all  the  silks  of  Samarcand  can  hide  the  crimson 

stain 
That,  some  day,  like  a  flame  will  mount,  and  burn  into 

your  brain. 


A  CONSOLATION 

What  would  befall  us,  Love,  if  Death  were  dead, — 
If  dear  old  Death,  with  his  benignant  face, 
Were  banished  from  the  world,  and  in  his  place 

Stood  endless  Life  upon  the  earth  instead? 

What  word  of  comforting  could  then  be  said 

To  those  who  languish,  or  what  tongue  could  trace 
The  deep'ning  horrors  of  the  deathless  race 

Thro'  hopeless  ages  darkening  overhead  ? 


The  Lute  of  Life       m  119 

The  rising  dawns  would  lose  their  lustre,  dear, 
The  soothing  shades  of  evening  cease  to  charm, 

And  even  beauty  would  no  longer  lure ; 
The  fervor  of  our  love  from  year  to  year 
Would  fail  us,  and  its  fires  refuse  to  warm, 
Were  Death  not  here  to  bid  us  still  endure. 


A  DREAM  IN  MARBLE 

Superb  and  snow-white  in  the  splendor 

Of  shimmering  marble  she  stood, 
Where  a  tremulous  twilight  made  tender 

Her  charms  so  enchantingly  nude ; 
Tho'  blushless  and  bloodless  and  breathless, 

Tho'  chaste  as  a  star  and  as  chill, 
She  stood  there  despairingly  deathless, 

Tormentingly  speechless  and  still. 

Men  knew  by  the  light  that  fell  round  her, 

By  the  poise  of  her  head  and  her  hands, 
That  he  who  had  sought  her  had  found  her, 

And  prisoned  her  there  where  she  stands  ; — 
Had  frozen  the  life  from  her  lashes, 

Had  chilled  her  warm  cheek  into  stone, 
Had  banked  her  first  passion  with  ashes, 

And  made  her  cold  beauty  his  own. 

Like  a  marvelous  melody  ended, 

A  delectable  dream  that  is  done, 
She  lingered,  serenely  and  splendid, 

Immortal  in  marble,  and  lone; 
The  midnight  was  stripped  from  her  tresses, 

The  starlight  was  kissed  from  her  eyes, 
And  she  knew  not  the  sculptor's  caresses, 

Nor  heeded  his  smiles  or  his  sighs. 

But  when  on  the  snows  of  her  shoulder 
Love  laid  the  warm  pulse  of  his  palm, 


120  The  Lute  of  Life 


A  flame  as  of  life  seemed  to  fold  her, 
And  startle  her  soul  from  its  calm ; 

And  over  her  body  a  tinting 
Of  roses  ran  forth  like  the  glow 

Of  spring,  when  the  sunbeams  are  printing 
Their  lyrics  of  love  on  the  snow. 

Her  lids,  how  they  lifted  and  quivered ; 

Her  lips,  how  they  crimsoned  beneath 
The  quickening  kiss  that  delivered 

Her  forth  from  the  limbus  of  death; 
Her  limbs  into  melodies  frozen, 

Were  loosed  from  their  strenuous  thrall, 
As  lilies  relax  that  repose  in 

The  warmth  of  full  bosoms,  withal. 
****** 

The  spell  of  the  marble  is  broken, 

Art's  triumph  is  only  a  dream, 
And  love,  whether  silent  or  spoken, 

Is  victor  at  last  and  supreme; 
It  shatters  the  shell  that  encloses 

The  germs  that  aspire  and  ascend, 
And  life  that  no  longer  reposes, 

Moves  on  unrestrained  to  the  end. 


ALONG  THE  WABASH 

The  redbud  on  the  Wabash  banks 
Now  lights  the  torches  of  the  spring, 

And,  here  and  there,  in  scattered  ranks, 
A  few  brave  flowers  are  marshaling — 

While  overhead  the  boughs  are  stirred 

By  wild  notes  of  a  bugler-<bird. 

An  angler  by  the  Wabash  banks 
With  rod  and  creel  is  seen  to  roam, 

His  dinner  dangling  at  his  flanks, 
A  half  a  dozen  miles  from  home ; 


The  Lute  of  Life  121 


His  highest  hope  and  zeal,  alas! 
To  catch  a  basketful  of  bass. 

A  hunter  by  the  Wabash  banks 
Steals  noiselessly  along  the  wood, 

Besprent  with  mud  from  shirt  to  shanks, 
And  thirsting  for  the  squirrel's  blood ; 

The  heartless  wretch !    I  almost  wish 

No  luck  may  load  his  breakfast  dish. 

A  lover  by  the  Wabash  banks 

In  moody  melancholy  sits, 
A  victim  of  the  elfish  pranks 

Of  Cupid,  and  his  idle  wits — 
Tut!  tut!  how  long  it  takes  to  find 
That  love  is  not  forever  kind! 

A  poet  by  the  Wabash  banks 
Sits  piping  on  a  reed  like  Pan 

A-tipsy,  trilling  out  his  thanks 
Right  merrily  to  God  and  man ; — 

And  so  I  feel  constrained  to  say, 

"The  spring  is  coming  up  this  way." 


WHY  NOT? 

I  take  no  thought  of  my  enemy — 
I  leave  him  alone,  I  pass  him  by, 
And  whistle  along  with  averted  eye, 

And  let  God  handle  his  case  for  me ; 

I  never  have  done  him  a  conscious  wrong, 

Yet  hard  words  rankle  upon  his  tongue 
At  the  sight  of  me,  and  I  know  not  why. 

A  little  unpleasant  ?    Aye,  that  is  true, 
To  feel  forever  a  man's  disdain ; 
But  the  sun  will  rise  and  set  again, 

And  the  lark  will  sing  and  the  skies  be  blue, 


122  The  Lute  of  Life 


And  the  river  will  not  forget  to  flow 
Because  of  the  hate  in  the  heart  of  my  foe, 
Nor  the  rain  refuse  to  rain. 


AT  THANKSGIVING 

A  holy  man  at  the  altar  stood 
Thanking  his  Maker  for  all  things  good, — 
For  peace  and  plenty,  and  health  and  ease, 
And  grace  more  precious  than  all  of  these. 

The  Master  listened,  but  over  His  cheek 
A  shadow  crept,  and  He  did  not  speak. 

Cold  and  haggard,  and  scant  of  bread, 
A  father  knelt  by  his  sick  child's  bed, 
And  faltered  his  brave  heart's  thankfulness, 
Alone,  in  the  midst  of  his  soul's  distress. 

The  Master  listened,  and  over  His  face 
A  glad  light  swept,  and  He  wept  a  space. 


NUTTING  DOWN  THE  WABASH 

Here  we  ramble  to  and  fro, 
Careless  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
Singing,  laughing,  shouting  still, 
Down  the  hollow — up  the  hill : 
Everywhere  the  pawpaws  grow, 
Everywhere  the  red  haws  glow — 
Everywhere  the  wild  grapes  shine, 
Full  to  bursting,  on  the  vine — 
Everywhere  the  walnut  shakes 
Its  bold  emeralds  in  the  brakes — 
Everywhere  the  hazel-bush 
Swings  its  open  purse  of  plush — 
Everywhere  the  hick'ry  tree 
Heaps  its  gems  unsparingly — 


The  Lute  of  Life  123 


Everywhere  the  acorn  brown 
Flings  its  humbler  jewels  down ; — 
Swart  October!     Kingliest 
Month  of  all  the  year,  and  best! 
Thus  we  greet  you,  as  we  go, 
Joyous  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
Gathering  nuts. 

Miles  from  home, — but  what  of  that? 
Here  we  rest,  and  here  we  chat, 
Locked  away  from  care,  and  shut 
Fast  as  kernels  in  a  nut, — 
Tilted  on  a  toppled  tree, 
Tired  of  foot,  but  fancy-free! 
There  a  squirrel  runs  at  will 
Up  an  oak,  and  takes  his  fill — 
Here  a  woodchuck,  shy  and  sly, 
Winks  at  us  and  gallops  by, — 
Who  could  lift  a  hand  to  slay 
Such  as  these,  on  such  a  day  ? 
Lend  me  but  an  hour  like  this 
Once  a  year,  and  all  the  bliss 
Of  the  rest  you  're  welcome  to ; — 
Never  painter  ever  drew 
From  the  gallery  of  his  mind 
Pictures  fair  as  those  we  find 
As  we  ramble  to  and  fro, 
Careless  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
Gathering  nuts. 


AT  DUSK 

Between  the  sunset  and  the  dew, 
When  doves  along  the  twilight  coo, 
There  comes  across  this  heart  of  mine 
A  sense  of  sadness,  half-divine, — 
An  ill-defined  despair  that  lends 
A  sweetness  as  the  night  descends. 


124  The  Lute  of  Life 


The  very  atmosphere  it  seems 
Is  quivering  with  wings  and  dreams, 
With  memories  and  hopes  and  fears, 
Too  sad  for  smiles,  too  glad  for  tears, — 
Strange  hints  o'er  drowsy  meadows  blown 
From  Edens  that  I  once  have  known. 

To-night  my  soul's  long  solitude 

Is  broken  by  a  brotherhood 

Of  wooing  voices,  thronging  through 

The  cool  arcades  of  dusk  and  dew, 

With  whisperings  so  strangely  sweet 

My  listening  heart  can  scarcely  beat. 

And  forms  elusive  as  the  light 
Are  eddying  before  my  sight, 
While  eyes  familiar  to  my  gaze 
Dawn  on  me  from  dead  yesterdays, 
With  piteous  appeal,  as  though 
They  love  me  and  are  loath  to  go. 

Upsprings  the  moon,  and  overhead 
The  early  stars  hang  ripe  and  red ; 
The  summer  twilight  swoons  to  rest, 
The  doves  are  dumb  beside  their  nest, 
And  sleep  that  knows  no  care,  steals  on 
And  I  retire — my  guests  are  gone. 


A  MARKING  IN  LONGFELLOW 

Twelve  months  ago  to-night  her  wasted  hand, 
Made  steady  by  the  impulse  of  her  spirit, 
Marked  this  sweet  song  that  I  might  understand, 
In  after  years,  as  fancy  led  me  near  it : 
"There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended, 
But  has  one  vacant  chair !" 


The  Lute  of  Life 125 

I  rest  the  book  against  my  brimming  eyes, 
While  Memory  with  eagerest  persistence 
Draws  back  the  starry  curtain  of  the  skies 
And  leads  an  angel  to  me  down  the  distance. 
"Let  us  be  patient !  these  severe  afflictions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 
Assume  this  dark  disguise." 

They  told  me  she  was  dead.    They  did  not  know — 

For,  every  evening  as  the  twilight  closes, 
I  hear  her  voice  and  see  her  bending  low 
Beside  the  window,  where  I  keep  her  roses. 
"There  is  no  death !  what  seems  so  is  transition ; 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 
Whose  portal  we  call  death." 


THE  FETTERS  OF  FLESH 

Could  we  only  be  known  as  we  are, — 
Known  just  as  we  are,  to  each  one, — 

The  world  would  be  fairer  by  far, 
And  the  doubts  that  disturb  us  be  done ; 

Could  the  flesh  that  enfolds  us  unroll, 

And  soul  be  disclosed  unto  soul, 

As  the  Dawn  is  disrobed  to  the  Sun — 

How  pure  would  our  lives  be,  and  whole! 

Could  we  only  be  known  as  we  are, 
Be  known  as  the  sea  to  the  sky — 

Be  known  as  the  night  to  the  star, 
Or  the  splendor  of  space  to  the  eye — 

But  Nature,  with  menacing  mien, 

Like  the  shadow  of  sin,  stands  between — 
And  we  swoon  in  her  sight,  as  we  sigh 

For  the  self  that  can  never  be  seen. 


126 The  Lute  of  Life 

We  can  never  be  known  as  we  are! 

Words  fail — and  our  senses  refuse 
To  make  plain  what  our  mouths  only  mar 

In  their  mumbling  of  language  abstruse ; 
No  matter  how  bad  nor  how  good, 
We  can  never  be  all  understood — 

We  do  not  the  things  that  we  choose, 
And  we  choose  not  the  things  that  we  should. 

We  can  never  be  known  as  we  are, 
Not  even  be  known  to  our  friend; 

There  are  discords  forever  that  jar 

The  notes  of  the  harps  that  should  blend ; 

Could  the  one  we  offended  but  feel 

The  truths  that  we  ne'er  can  reveal, 
In  place  of  his  scorn  he  would  lend 

His  pity  to  help  and  to  heal. 

We  can  never  be  known  as  we  are! 

T  is  the  fiat  of  fate  that  we  bide 
In  dungeons  no  hand  can  unbar, 

In  glooms  only  God  can  divide; 
'T  is  the  penance  we  pay,  reckoned  straight, 
For  the  sins  of  some  higher  estate — 

'T  is  the  kindly-made  hell  where  we  hide, 
In  the  fetters  of  flesh,  as  we  wait. 


LOVE'S  APOLOGY 

Though  beautiful  she  may  not  be, 
Yet  is  she  beautiful  to  me. 

No  other  in  her  face  may  find 
The  witchery  that  wins  my  mind. 

Her  eyes  that  do  my  soul  devour, 
Mayhap  on  others  have  no  power. 


The  Lute  of  Life  127 

The  roses  on  her  cheeks  that  shine, 
May  lure  not  any  lips  but  mine. 

The  tender  beauty  of  her  tone 
May  thrill  no  spirit  save  my  own. 

My  heart  alone  may  understand 
The  silken  touches  of  her  hand. 

The  glory  of  her  falling  tress 
May  tempt  no  other  palm's  caress. 

The  world  may  never  note  at  all 
The  graces  that  my  soul  enthrall. 

Though  beautiful  she  may  not  be, 
Perfection's  self  she  is  to  me. 


THERE  IS  NO  LUCK  ABOUT  THE  HOUSE 

No  more  the  swallows  dart  and  dip 

About  my  cottage-eaves ;  no  more 
The  tops  of  my  catalpas  drip 

With  bird-songs,  as  in  days  of  yore ; 
My  grapes  are  mildewed  on  the  vine, 

My  apples  blighted  on  the  boughs, 
A  curse  has  come  to  me  and  mine, — 

There  is  no  luck  about  the  house. 

The  grass  has  withered  from  my  lawn, 

And  blasted  are  my  chestnut  trees, 
From  whose  green  domes  in  days  agone 

The  dawn-birds  poured  their  melodies ; 
The  stream  that  vanished  down  the  vale 

With  cups  of  comfort  for  my  cows, 
Has  failed,  at  last,  as  all  things  fail, — 

There  is  no  luck  about  the  house. 


128  The  Lute  of  Life 


My  garden  now  can  scarce  be  seen, 

Gone  are  its  beds  and  winding  walks, 
And  caterpillars,  lank  and  lean, 

Climb  down  the  sapless  hollyhocks  ; 
My  meadows  of  their  flocks  are  shorn, 

The  hay  is  moldering  in  my  mows, 
And  death- worms  wander  in  my  corn, — 

There  is  no  luck  about  the  house. 

My  horses  and  my  hounds  are  gone, 

Nor  any  household  pet  remains, — 
An  owl  hoots  on  the  chimney  lone, 

And  bats  whirl  darkling  thro'  the  panes ; 
Only  a  cricket's  dreary  moan, 

Or  dreamy  nibbling  of  a  mouse, 
Reminds  me  of  the  summers  flown, — 

There  is  no  luck  about  the  house. 

At  midnight  when  the  autumn  rains 

Are  chill  upon  the  dismal  flats, 
I  hear  a  sound,  like  clanking  chains, 

Upstairs  among  the  garret  rats ; 
And  then  the  ghosts  of  other  times 

Reel  round  me  in  a  mad  carouse, 
With  all  their  follies  and  their  crimes, — 

There  is  no  luck  about  the  house. 


TO  JOHN  CLARK  RIDPATH 
[On  the  completion  of  his  "Great  Races  of  Mankind"] 

The  last  white  stone  lies  on  the  Pyramid, 
The  toils  are  ended,  and  the  tools  are  hid; 
The  Master  Workman  from  his  task  retires 
To  seek  at  last  the  respite  he  requires. 

Mankind  will  come  to-morrow  with  wide  eyes, 
To  view  the  structure  and  to  criticise, — 
Yet  little  boots  it  what  the  world  may  say, 
To  him  whose  labor  was  the  noblest  pay. 


The  Lute  of  Life  129 


Fair  daughter  of  the  flowerful  middle-West, 
Smooth-limbed  and  many-sistered !     Unto  thee, 
In  languor  lolling  'neath  thy  beechen  tree, 
We  pour  libations  of  the  mellowest 
Catawba  that  swart  Autumn  ever  pressed 
Amid  thy  purpling  valleys. — Indiana!    We 
Who  know  thee,  and  have  known  thee  longest,  see 
Thy  ripening  beauty  courted  and  caressed 
By  statesmen,  sapient  as  the  seers  of  Rome — 
By  orators  as  fluent  as  the  Greek — 

By  poets,  silver-sweet,  whose  Dorian  lays 
Soft-syllable  the  sanctities  of  home: — 
To  shield  thy  charms  and  share  thy  dimpled  cheek, 
Brave  men  have  fronted  Death  in  other  days. 


THE  FIRST  GRAY  HAIR 

And  thou  hast  come  at  last, 
Thou  baleful  issue  of  the  buried  years — 

Sad  fruitage  of  the  past, — 
Root-nurtured  in  a  loam  of  hopes  and  fears ; 
I  hail  thee,  but  I  hate  thee,  lurking  there, 
Thou  first  gray  hair. 

Thou  soft  and  silken  coil, 
Thou  milk-white  blossom  in  a  midnight  tress ! 

Out  from  the  alien  soil 
I  '11  pluck  thee  in  thine  infant  tenderness, 
As  the  rude  husbandman  uproots  the  tare, 
Thou  first  gray  hair. 

Of  all  the  fleecy  flock, 
Thou  art  the  one  to  loathe  and  to  despise ; 

The  cheat  within  the  shock, 
The  mold  that  on  the  early  harvest  lies, 
The  mildew  on  the  blossoms  of  the  pear — 
Thou  first  gray  hair. 


130  The  Lute  of  Life 


And  thou  the  Judas  art, 
The  tattler  of  Old  Time,  who  doth  betray 

The  weary  worn-out  heart 
Ere  yet  we  dare  to  dream  of  its  decay ; 
Thou  art  a  hint  of  wreck  beyond  repair, 
Thou  first  gray  hair. 


THE  CHOICE 

When  God  made  man, 
Placing  him  fair  before  Him,  thus  He  spake : 

"Five  gifts  are  in  My  span, 
Of  which  four  only  shalt  thou  choose  and  take." 

Then  the  All-Wise 
Lay  Love,  Forgetfulness,  and  Rest,  and  Death, 

And  Hope  before  his  eyes, 
Watching  his  actions  with  abated  breath. 

Man  wept  a  space, 
With  downcast  lids  and  trembling  lips,  and  then 

Took  Death  in  his  embrace, 
As  the  best  boon  that  might  be  given  men. 

Pausing  a  time, 
As  one  deep-shadowed  by  some  dire  distress, 

Some  agony  sublime, 
He  stroked  his  brow  and  chose  Forgetfulness*. 

Two  gifts  of  three 
Remained  in  the  Almighty's  upturned  palm, 

"Give  me  Love  next,"  said  he, 
With  face  as  steady  as  a  star  and  calm. 

One  gift  of  two 
Still  glistened,  gemlike,  there,  as  bravely  stept 

The  frail  one  forth,  and  drew 
The  pearl  of  Hope — whereat  Jehovah  wept ! 


The  Lute  of  Life  131 


Then  pity  prest 
The  God-heart  all  so  tenderly  and  deep, 

That,  in  the  place  of  Rest, 
He  mercifully  gave  His  creature  Sleep. 


A  WINTER  NIGHT  AMONG  MY  BOOKS 

To-night  I  'm  in  a  reading  mood, 

And  long  to  be  left  all  alone 
Beside  the  fire,  heaped  high  with  wood, 

Where  I  can  hear  the  north-wind  moan, 
And  shutters  bang,  and  gables  creak, 

The  while  I  sit  and  toast  my  toes 
The  bleakest  night  of  all  the  week, 

And  read,  forgetful  of  repose. 

And  read  the  books — the  restful  books — 

The  books  that  in  our  breasts  abide, — 
The  books  that  warm  the  ingle-nooks 

More  cheerily  than  all  beside. 
My  Browning  lies  upon  the  shelf, 

I  '11  not  disturb  him, — for  I  wish 
To  satisfy  my  soul's  sweet  self 

To-night  with  some  more  dainty  dish. 

Not  subtle  Shelley's  sugared  verse, 

Nor  Byron's  pessimistic  strain, 
Nor  Dryden's  couplets,  like  a  hearse, 

Slow-grinding  thro'  the  weary  brain, — 
To-night  I  find  not  any  use 

For  those  old  bugle-throated  bards ; 
I  rather  choose  some  humbler  muse 

Whose  feeling  with  mine  own  accords — 

Some  minstrel  with  a  whittled  reed 
Or  homely  hick'ry  pipe,  who  plays 

The  simpler  melodies  that  lead 

Our  mem'ries  back  to  other  days, — 


132 The  Lute  of  Life 

Some  riant  Riley's  rustic  flute, 
Some  quaint  refrain  of  Eugene  Field, 

Some  shy  Lee  Harris,  all  too  mute, 
Some  Parker,  singing  half-concealed. 

These  are  the  poet-voices — these, 

And  such  as  these,  that  I  would  fain 
Call  round  my  lonely  hearth  to  ease 

The  aching  of  my  heart  and  brain ; — 
Their  songs  are  warm  as  blood,  and  red 

With  tender  sympathies,  and  so 
I  love  them  best,  alive  or  dead, — 

These  bards  the  common  people  know. 


LINES  TO  A  TERRAPIN 

O  terrapin,  terrapin !  whither  away, 

Thou  slow-moving,  evil-eyed  tramp ; 
What  destiny  tempts  thee,  old  pilgrim,  to  stray 

So  far  from  the  terrapin  camp  ? 
Why  prowl  at  my  garden,  thou  sauntering  crust 

Of  inscrutable  cunning, — why  sneak 
And  recoil,  lake  a  snake,  with  an  air  of  distrust, 

When  a  gentleman  deigneth  to  speak  ? 

Thou  toothless  old  triple-lashed  rover,  what  news 

Bringest  thou  from  the  terrapin  isles, — 
And  what  of  thy  trip  thro'  the  dusks  and  the  dews, 

O'er  the  pathless  and  perilous  miles  ? 
What  bloody  banditti  beleaguer  thy  way, 

And  where  does  thy  lone  journey  trend, — 
O  prince  of  the  turtles,  make  answer,  I  pray, 

To  the  querulous  poet,  thy  friend ! 

Thou  Wandering  Jew  of  the  terrapin  race, 

What  marvelous  mysteries  lie 
Tormentingly  locked  in  thy  taciturn  face, 

And  forever  unsealed  in  thine  eye ; 


The  Lute  of  Life  133 

For  thee  doth  some  terrapin  mistress  await 

In  her  portable  palace,  I  wot, — 
For  thee  sits  she  night  after  night  at  the  gate, 

And  sadly  complains  of  her  lot. 

O  terrapin,  terrapin!  whither  away, 

Thro'  the  dews  and  the  dazzle  of  dawn? 
No  longer,  poor  gypsy,  thy  steps  I  will  stay, 

But  will  think  of  thee  often,  when  gone ; 
Thy  road  is  as  rugged  no  doubt  as  my  own, 

Thy  heart  is  as  sunless  and  sore, — 
So  I  wish  thee  good-morning,  thou  terrapin  lone, 

And  bid  thee  godspeed  from  my  door. 

HER  COMING 

Heigh-ho!  adown  the  glen 
Lady  Spring  has  come  again ; 

Run  to  greet  her — fly  to  meet  her, — 

Nothing  in  the  world  is  sweeter 
Than  the  winy  warmth  that  lies 
On  her  lips  and  in  her  eyes. 

Ruby-throated,  sapphire-eyed, 

Comes  she  hither,  like  a  bride, 
Gemm'd  with  emeralds,  and  gowned 
With  the  dawn,  and  flower-crowned — 

Quickening  with  life  and  heat 

Everything  beneath  her  feet. 

Robin  Redbreast,  preen  your  wing, — 
See,  she  comes,  the  Lady  Spring! 

Bid  .the  lark  be  up  and  drest, 

Bid  the  bluebird  pipe  his  best — 
She  for  whom  we  watch  and  wait, 
Even  now  is  at  the  gate. 

Honey-bees  from  everywhere 
Reel  in  the  enchanted  air, 


134 The  Lute  of  Life 

Tipsy  with  the  dew  that  drips 
From  our  Lady's  laughing  lips, 
As  she  stoops,  at  times,  to  sup 
Nectar  from  some  buttercup. 

What  a  world  of  beauty  glows 
Roundabout  her  as  she  goes 
Through  the  dewy  solitudes, 
Coaxing  from  the  drowsy  buds 
All  the  baby-blooms  that  be 
Tucked  away  in  bush  and  tree! 

Come,  ye  minstrels,  great  and  small, 

Give  her  welcome,  one  and  all ; 
Run  to  greet  her — fly  to  meet  her, — 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  sweeter 

Than  the  cadence  of  her  voice, 

Bidding  everything  rejoice. 


WHEN  RILEY  WRITES 

When  Riley  writes,  a  sudden  thrill 

Of  joy  or  grief  is  wont  to  fill 
Our  lifted  lids  to  overflow 
With  visions  of  the  Long-Ago, 

And  old  dead  loves  that  haunt  us  still. 

In  every  note  we  catch  the  thrill 
Of  wild-birds  on  some  Hoosier  hill, 
Or  in  the  pawpaw  lands  below, 
When  Riley  writes. 

Through  him  the  dear  old  days  distill 
Their  honey-dews  of  song,  until 

Their  sweetness  sets  our  hearts  aglow,- 
We  know  him  well,  and  well  we  know 
A  master's  hand  is  at  the  quill 
When  Riley  writes. 


The  Lute  of  Life  135 


SICK  IN  THE  CITY 

0  for  just  one  cup  of  water  from  the  old  well  over 

there 
In  the  country,  where  it  bubbles  from  the  bucket  free 

as  air! 
Day  after  day,  night  after  night,  as  wide  awake  I  've 

lain, 
With  parching  lips,  and  blood  as  hot  as  fire  in  every 

vein, 

1  've  longed  for  just  a  swallow  from  the  old  well  on 

the  farm, 
Where  the  willow  branches  fan  it  thro'  the  summers 

long  and  warm — 
Where  the  grass  is  green  around  it,  and  the  skies  above 

are  clear, 
And  the  clover  hills  are  blossoming  and  God  himself 

is  near. 

This  water  of  the  city  is  a  rather  poor  excuse, 

Especially  in  summer,  for  an  invalid  to  use ; — 

They  may  praise  it — if  they  like  it — they  may  drink  it, 

if  they  will, 
And  pipe  it  from  their  patent  pumps  up  yonder  on  the 

hill, 

But  speaking  for  myself  alone,  it  fails  to  satisfy 
The  thirst  I  feel,  nor  can  I  learn  to  like  it,  if  I  try ; 
So,  Calvin,  in  the  morning,  take  a  bucket  on  your  arm, 
And  go  and  fetch  some  water  from  the  old  well  on  the 

farm. 

Yes,  it 's  whimsical  and  foolish,  I  admit,  and  yet  when 

one 
Has  grown  up  in  the  country,  where  the  waters  leap 

and  run, 
And  the  rocks  are  dark  and  mossy,  and  the  gurgle  of 

the  springs 
Is  heard  along  the  hollow,  where  the  heavy  shadow 

clings — 


136  The  Lute  of  Life 

I  say,  when  one  's  accustomed  to  the  country  and  its 

ways, 

It 's  hard  to  overcome  it,  and  break  off,  in  later  days ; 
And  so  you  '11  have  to  humor  me,  when  recollections 

swarm 
And  lead  away  my  fancy  to  the  old  well  on  the  farm. 

The  old  well !    I  can  see  it  through  the  morning-glory 

leaves 
That  clambered  round  the  kitchen-porch  and  up  the 

cabin-eaves ; 
I  can  see  the  dangling  bucket,  and  can  hear  the  crystals 

drip 

In  rivulets  of  laughter  from  its  overflowing  lip. 
O,  the  picture  is  so  pleasing,  so  refreshing,  and  so  plain, 
The  foolish  tears  are  falling  from  my  fevered  lids  like 

rain, 

And  ere  the  vision  passes  I  must  lift  a  feeble  arm 
And  beg  a  little  water  from  the  old  well  on  the  farm. 


THE  VALE  OF  GOLD 

[They  tell  of  a  wonderful  valley  in  the  Sierra  Madre, 
which  glistens  with  gold  and  is  resplendent  with 
bright  waters  and  beautiful  flowers.  Connected 
with  it  are  many  fascinating  legends  of  Indian  ori- 
gin, the  prettiest  of  which  is  the  belief  of  the  na- 
tives that  Montezuma  will  some  day  return  and 
free  them  from  the  dominion  of  the  descendants 
of  the  Conquestodores.] 

Far  to  the  south  and  west  there  lies, 

Away  in  the  sunset  land, 
Where  the  weird  Sierra  lifts  to  the  skies 

The  wealth  of  her  jeweled  hand — 
There  lies  deep-hid  in  the  mountain  range, 

As  old  as  the  world  is  old, 
A  fabulous  valley,  dim  and  strange, 

That  is  known  as  the  Vale  of  Gold. 


The  Lute  of  Life  137 

Never  a  white  man's  foot  has  crossed 

An  Eden  as  fair  as  this, 
Since  bidding  adieu  to  the  one  he  lost 

On  the  brim  of  the  world,  I  wis ; 
There  are  flowers  as  bright  as  the  orbs  of  night, 

And  birds  of  radiant  wing — 
And  streams  that  quiver  and  dance  forever 

In  time  to  the  tunes  they  sing. 

There  's  a  golden  grot,  and  a  golden  ledge, 

And  blooms  of  gold,  and  golden  bees, — 
Gold  in  the  grass  and  the  sighing  sedge, 

And  gold  in  the  orange  trees ; 
There  's  gold  in  the  stars,  and  gold  in  the  stream, 

And  gold  in  the  skin  of  the  snake — 
Gold  in  the  moon  when  the  dreamers  dream, 

And  gold  in  the  morn  when  they  wake. 

And  a  seer  hath  writ  on  a  golden  stone, 

In  a  golden  time  of  the  past, 
How  the  Montezumas  will  mount  their  throne 

Again  in  the  valley  vast; 
And  the  fires  of  the  Aztec  priests  will  burn 

Once  more  on  the  altars  cold, 
And  the  gods  of  the  vanquished  race  return 

To  reign  in  the  Vale  of  Gold. 


THE  CITY  OF  SNOW 

Silently,  silently,  all  the  night, 

Out  in  the  fields,  where  the  north-winds  blow, 
A  shimmering  army,  robed  in  white, 

Is  building  the  City  of  Snow. 

Hour  after  hour  their  task  they  ply, 
Down  where  the  roses  used  to  grow, 

Piling  the  battlements  steep  and  high 
Of  the  silent  City  of  Snow. 


138  The  Lute  of  Life 


Out  in  the  dark  in  the  driving  storm, 
To  and  fro  they  glimmer  and  glow 

All  night,  as  their  deft  hands  frame  and  form 
The  mystic  City  of  Snow. 

Never  the  sound  of  a  hammer  smites 
The  milk-white  silence,  above  or  below, 

And  dumber  than  dreams  are  the  dapper  sprites 
That  build  the  City  of  Snow. 

'T  is  morn !  and  the  labor  is  all  complete, 
And  the  cold  north-wind  has  ceased  to  blow, 

And  Vandal  feet  are  abroad  in  the  street 
Of  the  sinless  City  of  Snow. 


ECLIPSE  OF  THE  MOON 
(JAN.  16,  1889) 

The  lady-moon  is  full  of  pain, 
And  on  her  pallid  face  there  lies 

A  shadow,  like  the  first  deep  stain 
Of  sin  upon  a  wanton's  eyes. 

A  vaunting,  flaunting,  jealous  queen, 
To-night  her  pride  is  all  undone, 

For  lo!  a  rival  moves  between 

Her  own  breast  and  her  lord,  the  sun. 

A  little  space  of  inward  strife 

More  terrible  than  tongue  can  speak, 
And  then  the  shadow  lifts,  and  life 

Comes  bounding  back  into  her  cheek- 
Comes  leaping — and  her  lover's  eyes 

Again  are  hers,  and  hers  his  lips — 
And  all  the  stars  that  crowd  the  skies 

Keep  laughing  at  the  moon's  eclipse. 


The  Lute  of  Life  139 


THE  OLD  FIRE-PLACE 

The  blessed  old  fire-place!  how  bright  it  appears, 

As  back  in  my  boyhood  I  gaze, 
O'er  the  desolate  waste  of  the  vanishing  years, 

From  the  gloom  of  these  lone  latter-days; 
Its  lips  are  as  ruddy,  its  heart  is  as  warm, 

To  my  fancy,  to-night,  as  of  yore, 
When  we  cuddled  around  it,  and  smiled  at  the  storm 

As  it  showed  its  white  teeth  at  the  door. 

I  remember  the  apple  that  wooed  the  red  flame 

Till  the  blood  bubbled  out  of  its  cheek, — 
And  the  passionate  pop-corn  that  smothered  its  shame 

Till  its  heart  split  apart  with  a  shriek; 
I  remember  the  Greeks  and  the  Trojans  who  fought, 

In  their  shadowy  shapes  on  the  wall, 
And  the  yarn,  in  thick  tangles,  my  fingers  held  taut 

While  my  mother  was  winding  the  ball. 

I  remember  the  cat  that  lay  cozy  and  curled 

By  the  jamb,  where  the  flame  flickered  high, 
And  the  sparkles — the  fire-flies  of  winter — that  whirled 

Up  the  flue,  as  the  wind  whistled  by; 
I  remember  the  bald-headed,  bandy-legg'd  tongs, 

That  frowned  like  a  fiend  in  my  face, 
In  a  fury  of  passion,  repeating  the  wrongs 

They  had  borne  in  the  old  fire-place. 

I  remember  the  steam  from  the  kettle  that  breathed, 

As  soft  as  the  flight  of  a  soul, — 
The  long-handled  skillet  that  spluttered  and  seethed 

With  the  batter  that  burthened  its  bowl; 
I  remember  the  rusty,  identical  nail 

Where  the  criminal  pot-hooks  were  hung, — 
The  dragon-faced  andirons,  the  old  cedar  pail, 

The  gourd,  and  the  peg  where  it  swung. 


140  The  Lute  of  Life 

But  the  fire  has  died  out  on  the  old  cabin  hearth, 

The  wind  clatters  loud  thro'  the  pane, 
And  the  dwellers, — they  're  flown  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth, 

And  will  gaze  on  it  never  again ; 
A  forget-me-not  grows  in  the  moldering  wall, 

The  last  as  it  were  of  its  race, 
And  the  shadows  of  night  settle  down  like  a  pall 

On  the  stones  of  the  old  fire-place. 

AT  THE  TELESCOPE 

Through  this  magic  tube  we  trace 
All  the  star-flecked  fields  of  space, — 

O'er  this  bridge  of  burnished  glass 

With  a  hasty  glance  we  pass 
To  creation's  fiery  core, 
Where  the  red-ranked  planets  roar 

Round  exhaustless  suns,  and  where, 

In  dim  gardens  of  the  air, 
We  can  see,  amidst  the  gloom, 
New  worlds  bursting  into  bloom. 

We  have  climbed  the  girdling  bars 

Built  around  the  farthest  stars, 
And  our  questing  eye  has  scaled 
Heights  that  Nature's  hand  had  veiled — 

Standing  on  this  hill's  green  slope, 

Peering  through  the  telescope, 
We,  with  wonder-wakened  eyes, 
Walk  the  meadows  of  the  skies, 

Where  the  constellations  red 

Hang  in  clusters  overhead. 

Strange  that  in  an  instant's  span 

We  can  reach  Aldebaran, 

On  a  steed  that  moves  not. — Strange, 
How  our  idle  glance  can  range 

Up  the  pathless  Alps  of  air 


The  Lute  of  Life  141 


In  a  twinkle  to  Atair, — 

Strange  that  we  can  loop  and  tie 

Solar  systems  with  our  eye, 
Weigh  the  wreck'd  worlds  whirling  past 
In  their  orbits  through  the  Vast. 

Ah,  the  hand  that  framed  the  night 
Modeled  us,  and  shaped  our  sight — 
Gifted  us  with  power  to  scan 
Parts  of  His  perfected  plan — 
Fashioned  every  sense  to  fit 
The  divine  designs  of  it — 

Made  each  thing  to  correspond 
With  its  counterpart  beyond — 
Made  creation's  harp,  and  then 
Tuned  it  to  the  minds  of  men. 


THE  OLD  VILLAGE  DEPOT 

There  stands  the  old  station-house,  out  in  the  rain, 

A  stone's  throw  away  from  my  door, 
With   its   wind-shaken  wall,   and   its  weather-racked 
pane, 

And  its  rickety,  rat-haunted  floor ; 
Its  sashes  are  seamed,  and  its  lintels  are  gashed 

With  the  jack-knives  of  twenty  long  years; 
And  the  eaves,  where  the  wings  of  the  swallows  once 
flashed, 

Seem  touched  with  a  kinship  of  tears. 

Old  house !  it  looms  up  like  a  ghost  in  the  gale, 

And  gibbers  and  groans  in  the  blast, 
And  speaks  with  a  weird  and  a  weariless  wail 

Of  the  dim,  irretrievable  past ; 
On  the  old  dingy  platform  that  girdles  it  round 

The  wealth  of  the  prairie  once  poured, 
And  daily  the  carriage  of  commerce  came  down 

With  the  wares  of  the  stranger  aboard. 


142 The  Lute  of  Life 

'T  was  here,  when  our  brothers  went  off  to  the  wars, 

We  blessed  them  and  bade  them  adieu ; 
And  we  welcomed  them,  here,  'neath  a  banner  of  stars, 

When  the  terrible  conflict  was  through ; 
And  here  where  the  barefooted  boys  are  at  play, 

The  war  trumpets  thundered  of  yore, — 
And  here  came  the  coffins,  in  ghastly  array, 

Of  the  dear  soldier-dead  to  our  door. 

'T  was  here  the  young  bride,  in  her  beauty  and  bloom, 

To  her  cheek  felt  the  parting  kiss  press'd, 
And  here  beat  with  rapture  the  heart  of  the  groom, 

As  he  cradled  her  form  on  his  breast; 
And  here  in  his  squalor  the  beggar  has  crept 

To  shelter  himself  from  the  blast, 
In  the  merciless  midnight,  and  dreamed  as  he  slept 

Of  the  happier  days  of  the  past.  . 

And  here  came  the  message,  more  fleet  than  the  dove, 

O'er  the  wavering,  wandering  wire, 
That  filled  us  with  grief  or  that  thrilled  us  with  love, 

As  we  peacefully  sat  by  the  fire; 
Ah,  the  old  station-house !  it  will  soon  tumble  down, 

Its  timbers  are  crumbling  away ; 
But  its  record  is  writ  on  the  heart  of  the  town, 

And  its  glory  abideth  for  aye. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

He  dwelt  within  the  charnel-house  of  Time, 
A  kindred  spirit  of  the  rayless  gloom, 
A  lynx  within  the  shadow  of  a  tomb, 

Where  slept  unnumbered  centuries  of  crime; 

And  loathsome  passions,  in  their  evil  prime, 
Writhed  in  his  bosom,  stinging  to  its  doom 
That  sombre,  solitary  soul,  for  whom 

No  bells  of  mortal  cheer  were  heard  to  chime. 


The  Lute  of  Life  143 


No  common  lot  was  his !  what  songs  he  sang 
Were  but  the  echoes  of  abysmal  seas 

That  burst  upon  the  shores  of  his  despair; 
Or  but  the  thunder  of  the  spheres  that  rang 
Against  his  heart  in  rhythmic  agonies, 
And  roused  the  drowsy  demons  lurking  there. 

No  love,  no  hope,  no  image  of  delight, 
No  lip  to  kiss,  no  joy  in  any  guise, 
Naught  but  the  ashen  lustre  of  the  skies, 

And  the  mute  torment  of  eternal  night, 

Were  his — and  the  wan  spirit's  hideous  plight; 
He  looked  upon  the  worm  that  never  dies, 
And  in  the  crimson  riddle  of  its  eyes 

He  read  the  augury  of  endless  blight. 

A  Titan  genius  of  seraphic  power, 

Madly  he  swept  the  joyless  lute,  and  wove 
Fantastic  melodies  of  untamed  love 

Round  every  soul,  like  starlight  round  a  tower, 
Then  perished  of  his  passions,  ere  the  dove 

From  o'er  the  foam  brought  in  the  olive-flower. 


IN  SICKNESS 
(ACKNOWLEDGING  GIFT  OF  FLOWERS) 

Thy  gift  of  flowers,  O  friends  sincere, 
I  can  but  answer  with  a  tear, 
For  words  of  mine  can  ill  express 
The  gratitude  my  eyes  confess. 

I  feel  that  in  this  world  of  ours 
There  is  a  sisterhood  of  flowers, 
Whose  gentle  ministrations  reach 
Beyond  the  outer  gates  of  speech. 

Some  souls  there  are  so  beautiful 
They  turn  from  daily  toil  to  cull 


144  The  Lute  of  Life 

The  syllables  of  love  that  drip 
In  music  from  the  rose's  lip. 

And  such  are  thine,  O  gracious  hearts, 
Whose  wealth  of  beauty  thus  imparts 
Its  fragrance  to  a  soul  like  mine, 
That  bides,  serene,  the  Will  Divine. 


MY  LADY  BEAUTIFUL 

Could  I,  in  two  sweet  sonnets,  here  condense 
The  honied  praise  and  compliments  of  all 
The  poets  of  the  earth  since  Adam's  fall, — 

Or  could  my  light-winged  fancy,  flying  thence, 

Beyond  the  girdling  barricades  of  sense, 
The  subtle  strength  of  future  song  forestall — 
Were  such  my  gifts,  I  'd  build  a  temple  tall 

Of  royal  homage,  walled  with  eloquence, 

Within  whose  purple  court,  upon  a  throne 
Of  silken  despotism,  I  would  place 

The  snowy  empress  of  my  soul's  desire ; — 

Her  dynasty  should  be  my  heart,  alone, 
Her  passions  be  to  mine  as  food  and  fire, 

And  pasture  for  mine  eyes  her  body's  grace. 

And  twinkling  Cupids  nightly  to  her  sleep, 
In  clouds  of  riant  rivalry  would  throng, — 
And  in  the  meshes  of  her  ringlets  long, 

A  breathless  vigil  o'er  the  dreamer  keep; 

Nor  ever  should  a  tell-tale  teardrop  peep 

From  out  her  dewy  lids, — nor  from  her  tongue 
Should  aught  escape  but  laughter  and  sweet  song, 

And  discourse  dreamfully  devout  and  deep. 

No  pirate  winds — no  prowling  plagues — should  creep, 
By  night  or  day,  within  her  wreathen  shrine, — 

The  stairway  to  her  heart  should  be  so  steep 
That  it  would  echo  to  no  tread  but  mine, — 

And  I,  through  all  the  dear  Idalian  days, 

Would  lull  the  princess  with  love's  roundelays. 


The  Lute  of  Life  145 


FAITH  AND  DUTY 

God  made  me;  I  will  not  apologize, — 

The  workmanship  is  His ;  if  firm  and  fair, 
The  credit  of  its  strength  I  do  not  share ; 

If  it  be  rudely  reared,  and  men  despise 

Its  quaint  design,  and  deign  to  criticise, 
I  make  no  murmur  for  I  have  no  care, — 
I  question  not  the  Builder,  here  nor  there, 

Believing  still  that  all  His  ways  are  wise. 

This  is  the  one  sweet  duty  that  I  claim : 

To  keep  the  palace-chambers  cool  and  pure 
And  lily-chaste  \vithin,  while  they  endure, 

And  all  the  many  turret-lights  aflame ; — 

To  pour  love's  wine,  and  bid  the  world  take  part, 
Around  the  purple  altars  of  my  heart. 


THE  OLD  CAPTAIN 

[Written  upon  the  death  of  Capt.  Reuben  A.  Riley, 
father  of  James  Whit  comb  Riley.] 

A  friend  of  freedom,  strong  and,  withal, 

A  hero  such  as  a  Carlyle  drew, 

With  a  heart  to  dare  and  a  hand  to  do, 
And  a  zeal  that  answered  at  duty's  call ; 
His  was  the  breast  that  burned  with  ire 

When  a  foe  uprose  in  the  land  below — 
His  was  the  speech  that  flamed  like  fire, 

And  kindled  all  hearts  with  a  kindred  glow. 

His  was  the  flesh  that  felt  the  steel 
In  the  battle's  van,  and  his  the  nerve 
Never  to  waver  and  never  to  swerve 

Till  borne,  half-dead,  from  the  cannon's  wheel ; 

But  nobler  yet  was  the  heart  that  laid 
Contention  aside  at  the  conflict's  close — 

He  reaped  death's  field  with  a  ready  blade, 
But  after  the  struggle  forgot  his  foes. 


146 The  Lute  of  Life 

He  was  a  man  of  the  antique  mold, 
A  Hoosier  chief  of  the  Celtic  breed, 
The  kind  of  a  man  that  a  People  need 

When  prowling  wolves  break  into  the  fold ; 

He  stood  four-square  to  the  winds  that  blow, 
A  Galahad,  even,  who  knew  no  guile, 

And  went  to  his  rest  as  the  good  knights  go, 
•At  the  king's  first  call,  with  a  kindly  smile. 


MORNING  IN  THE  WOODS 

The  dewy  woods  at  daybreak  are  to  me 
A  breathing  dream  of  God's  benignity, 
Wherein  the  unhoused  spirit  hears  and  sees 
The  green-leafed  gospel  of  His  mysteries. 

Adown  the  dripping  aisles  of  morning  come 
The  songs  of  summer,  mingling  with  the  hum 
Of  hurrying  insects,  jostling  as  they  pass 
Along  the  breezy  boulevards  of  grass. 

The  cooling  crystals  quiver  on  the  braid 
Of  interlacing  branches,  and  the  shade 
Is  sprayed  and  sodden  with  the  wasted  wine 
Where  Old  Silenus  and  the  Goat-foot  dine. 

Out  from  the  sable  scabbard  of  the  night 
Flashes  a  saber-stream  against  the  light, 
While  high  o'erhead,  beneath  the  tent-like  trees, 
The  greenwood  athletes  scale  their  slim  trapeze. 

At  dawn  of  day  the  dripping  mint  distills 
Its  pungent  passion  thro'  the  waking  hills, 
Nor  human  presence  saddens  or  profanes 
The  cool  primeval  haunts  where  Nature  reigns. 

No  trampling  feet,  no  snapping  twig,  no  sound 
Of  higher  life  is  heard  in  the  profound 


The  Lute  of  Life 147 

And  melancholy  forest,  than  the  harsh 

Cry  of  the  blue-crane  rising  from  the  marsh. 

A  sibilance  of  semi-silence  fills 
The  vasty  interspaces  of  the  hills — 
A  dull,  eternal  whispering  of  wings, 
Like  elfin  frettings  of  a  lute's  lax  strings. 

A  quiet  harmony  that  never  tires 
Outbreathes  forever  from  the  blended  choirs, 
And  fair  as  any  Eden-dream  can  be, 
The  dewy  woods  at  daybreak  are  to  me. 


THE  IDEALIST 

He  has  pondered  long  the  plan 

Of  nature  and  of  man, 
And  is  won  to  the  conclusion 
That  all  matter  is  illusion, 

And  that  all  we  see  or  seem 
Is  but  the  dim  conclusion 
Of  a  dream; 

That  nothing  here  is  real 
Save  the  unseen,  the  ideal, 
The  strenuous  warm  motion 
Of  the  soul  that,  like  an  ocean, 
Throbs  and  sobs  along  the  shore, 
In  a  kind  of  blind  devotion, 
Evermore ; 

That  which  we  prize  of  earth 
Is  of  little  weight  or  worth, 
For  it  passes  as  we  view  it, 
And  howe'er  we  may  pursue  it 
With  a  passion  to  adore — 
We  can  ne'er  attain  unto  it, 
Evermore. 


148  The  Lute  of  Life 

Yet  Love's  self  is  never  vain, 
It  can  neither  lose  nor  gain, 

Here  nor  there. — It  is  an  essence 
That  enlarges  not  nor  lessens 
Under  sun  or  sea  or  sod, — 
It  is  but  the  living  presence 
Of  a  god. 

Life  and  Love  are  one,  and  are 
All  in  all,  from  star  to  star; — 
To  the  end  from  the  beginning 
When  our  spirits  were  sent  spinning 
Down  eternity's  long  groove, 

Nothing  has  been  worth  the  winning, 
Saving  love. 


AN  UNDECORATED  GRAVE 

I  turned  aside — I  could  not  bear 

To  see  them  break  ranks,  then  and  there, 

With  flowers  and  flags  on  every  grave, 
Save  one — save  one,  obscure,  alone, 
Unmarked  by  any  kindly  stone, 

Where  slept  the  bravest  of  the  brave. 

As  slowly  thro'  the  gate  withdrew 
The  bent  and  broken  files  of  blue, 
I  stepped  aside,  and  when  the  last 
Grim  vet'ran  from  the  place  had  passed, 
I  took  from  every  tufted  tomb 
A  single  slender  spray  of  bloom, 
And  wove  a  garland  for  the  grave 
Where  slept  the  bravest  of  the  brave. 

Not  any  mangled  martyr  lay 
In  that  neglected  spot,  nay!  nay! 
Nor  hero  who  by  ball  or  blade 
Had  died  upon  the  barricade — 


The  Lute  of  Life  149 

'T  was  but  a  woman  whom  the  wave 
Of  war  had  swept  into  the  grave, 
A  poor  and  broken-hearted  slave ! 
A  dusky  mother,  whom  the  fate 
Of  arms  had  flung  against  the  gate 
Of  freedom,  in  the  wild  fourth  year 
Of  havoc — God,  I  wept  for  her, 
Poor  soul !  who  never  lived  to  see 
Her  brood  of  braves,  unchained  and  free, 
Come  home  across  the  crimson  sea 
Of  death,  with  shouts  of  victory. 

And  so,  and  so,  I  could  not  bear 
To  see  the  column  break  rank  there, 
Unmindful  of  the  humble  grave 
Of  that  poor  broken-hearted  slave, 
Whose  all  for  liberty  she  gave. 


IF 

If  all  who  hate  would  love  us, 

And  all  our  loves  were  true, 
The  stars  that  swing  above  us 

Would  brighten  in  the  blue ; 
If  cruel  words  were  kisses, 

And  every  scowl  a  smile, 
A  better  world  than  this  is 

Would  hardly  be  worth  while ; 
If  purses  would  untighten 

To  meet  a  brother's  need, 
The  load  we  bear  would  lighten 

Above  the  grave  of  greed. 

If  those  who  whine  would  whistle, 
And  those  who  languish  laugh, 

The  rose  would  rout  the  thistle, 
The  grain  outrun  the  chaff ; 

If  hearts  were  only  jolly, 


150 The  Lute  of  Life 

If  grieving  were  forgot, 
And  tears  and  melancholy 

Were  things  that  now  are  not- 
Then  Love  would  kneel  to  Duty, 

And  all  the  world  would  seem 
A  bridal-bower  of  beauty, 

A  rose-enraptured  dream. 

If  men  would  cease  to  worry, 

And  women  cease  to  sigh, 
And  all  be  glad  to  bury 

Whatever  has  to  die — 
If  neighbor  spake  to  neighbor 

As  Love  demands  of  all, 
The  rust  would  eat  the  sabre, 

The  spear  stay  on  the  wall ; 
Then  every  day  would  glisten, 

And  every  eye  would  shine, 
And  God  would  pause  to  listen, 

And  life  would  be  divine. 


NOT  A  POET 

However  gifted,  he  no  poet  is 
Who  does  not,  in  his  amplitude  of  soul, 
Infold  with  pity,  and  with  tears  condole, 

The  faults  and  failings  of  a  world  like  this — 

Who  does  not,  with  the  God-like  grace  that 's  his, 
Give  love  unto  the  loveless,  and  console 
The  helpless  and  the  hopeless,  making  whole 

The  broken-hearted  with  brave  dreams  of  bliss. 

God  pity  the  poor  player  who  but  tunes 
His  soulless  harp  to  please  a  prince's  ear, 

Oblivious  of  the  underworld  that  swoons, 
In  unmelodious  gloom,  from  year  to  year ; 

fie  has  no  title  to  the  poet's  art 

Who  has  no  poet's  feeling  in  his  heart. 


The  Lute  of  Life  151 


TWENTY  YEARS  AFTER 

[Read  at  the  celebration  of  the  Twentieth  Anniversary 
of  the  University  of  Illinois.} 

O  what  can  be  said  on  a  day  like  this, 

When  the  heart  is  brimmed,  as  a  stirrup-cup, 
With  the  loves  and  the  dreams  and  the  far-off  bliss 

Of  the  dead  old  days,  as  they  wander  up, 
One  by  one,  in  a  glimmering  line, 

Thro'  the  purple  dusk  of  the  waning  years, — 
O  what  can  be  said  by  a  lip  like  mine, 

When  the  soul  sits  mute  in  a  sleet  of  tears  ? 

Tears  of  revery — tears  of  joy — 

Tears  for  the  times  that  come  no  more 
To  the  fair-haired  girl  and  the  bright-eyed  boy 

Who  trod  these  halls  in  the  days  of  yore ; — 
We  leave  the  laughter,  and  all  the  smiles, 

To  the  lighter  hearts  of  the  latter  time, 
As  we  go  galloping  down  the  miles 

Of  the  past,  to  the  ring  of  an  older  rhyme. 

None  can  follow  us  whither  we  fare, 

And  never  an  alien  eye  can  see 
The  gray  ghosts  gathering  over  there 

On  the  lonesome  hill,  where  we  used  to  be ; 
None  can  follow  us,  none  can  know 

Of  the  scenes  we  see  and  the  sounds  we  hear 
When  the  winds  of  March  in  the  larches  blow, 

And  the  nights  grow  late,  and  our  dreams  grow  clear. 

The  years  come  back  in  a  snowy  score, 

But  only  as  dreams ; — and  we  sigh,  in  vain, 
As  we  wait  down  there,  at  the  open  door, 

For  the  boys  that  never  come  back  again, — 
For  Abbott,  and  Buel,  and  Snelling,  and  Crane, 

And  Krafft,  and  Reiss,  and  Hazzard,  and  Dole, 
And  all  the  rest  of  the  glorious  train, 

Who  come  no  more  as  the  years  unroll. 


152  The  Lute  of  Life 


God  be  with  them  wherever  they  are, 

The  knightly  fellows  we  used  to  know, 
Blown  by  the  winds  of  the  world  afar 

From  the  old  ball-ground  of  the  Long  Ago ; 
God  be  with  them  wherever  they  be, 

And  cuddle  them  close  in  His  loving  arms, 
Whether  they  wander  the  stormy  sea 

Or  follow  the  plows  on  their  fruited  farms. 

One  lies  dead  at  the  Golden  Gate, 

And  one  in  the  North, — and  one  I  knew 
And  loved  in  the  flush  of  his  youth  elate, 

Sleeps  to  the  South,  in  the  dark  and  the  dew ; 
And  many  have  passed  that  we  know  not  of, 

To  the  lampless  land,  since  the  dear  old  times 
When  the  world  was  warm  with  the  wine  of  love 

And  the  red  blood  ran  in  a  ripple  of  rhymes. 

So  I  repeat  (as  a  man  in  his  wine), 

Facing  the  fact  as  it  fairly  is, 
What  can  be  said  by  a  lip  like  mine, 

Of  a  past  like  that,  in  an  hour  like  this? 
Where  are  the  boys,  now?  beckon  them  up! 

Bid  them  to  come,  whether  guest  or  ghost, 
And  sing  as  of  old,  as  the  circling  cup 

Steadies  the  heart  for  a  farewell  toast. 

One  to  the  living,  and  one  to  the  dead, 

And  one  to  the  years  that  are  yet  to  be, 
When  the  children  we  fondle,  each  little  tow-head, 

Shall  still  gather  fruit  from  this  bountiful  tree; 
One  cup  to  the  present,  and  one  to  the  past, 

And  one  to  the  old  recollections  that  beat 
At  the  doors  of  our  hearts,  like  birds  of  the  blast, 

Driven  into  the  light,  thro'  the  night  and  the  sleet. 

A  tear  as  a  toast — come  pledge  it  with  me, 

To  Baker,  of  memory  gentle  and  good, — 
And  one  to  the  glory  of  Gregory, 


The  Lute  of  Life 153 

And  the  stalwart  souls  that  around  him  stood 
In  the  old  regime,  when  the  ways  were  dim 

With  the  smoke  of  scorn  and  the  dust  of  doubt, 
And  the  task  of  a  Titan  fell  on  him 

As  he  raveled  the  tangled  problems  out. 

A  health  to  Snyder,  and  Stuart,  and  Bliss, 

To  Burrill,  and  Shattuck, — and  last,  I  say, 
To  good  Peabody,  whose  pride  it  is 

To  mark  his  reign  with  a  kindly  sway; — 
The  old  dreams  perish — old  customs  change — 

The  gold  dawn  glimmers  above  the  gray, 
And  the  world  moves  up  to  a  higher  range, 

AYith  fairer  promises,  day  by  day. 

Twenty  times  one !  how  long  it  seems 

From  the  first  spring  flower  to  the  first  snowfall ! 
Twenty  times  one!  and  the  sun's  last  beams 

Sleep  on  the  hills,  and  the  shadows  crawl 
Farther  and  farther  into  the  east, 

And  the  Hope  of  the  morning  folds  its  palm, — 
And  the  lights  burn  low,  and  the  evening  feast 

Is  done, — and  the  stars  shine  clear  and  calm. 

THE  PLACE  BEAUTIFUL 

There  is  a  place — a  strange  and  narrow  strip — 

Unmarked  as  yet  on  any  map  or  chart, 
A  bloomy  bourn,  where  milk  and  honey  drip, 

And  all  things  are  that  satisfy  the  heart; 
'T  is  no  man's  land,  and  yet  it  lies  so  near 

That  all  the  world,  alike  the  rich  and  poor, 
Can  share  its  beauty  and  enjoy  its  cheer, 

One  golden  moment,  as  they  cross  it  o'er. 

Not  Arcady — not  even  Avalon — 

Nor  Temple  Vale  with  its  enchanted  bowers, 

Can  match  the  dewy  lustre  lying  on 
This  peaceful  realm  of  laughter,  light,  and  flowers ; 


154  The  Lute  of  Life 


And  if  a  weary  pilgrim  ever  sue 

For  guidance  to  a  land  of  lesser  sins, 

May  some  good  spirit  lead  him  forth  to  view 
The  place  where  friendship  ends  and  love  begins. 


A  NIGHT  IN  NOVEMBER 

The  lady-moon  lies  coffined  in  a  cloud; 

The  winds  are  up,  and  from  the  sobbing  boughs 
The  last  leaves  fall ;  far  off,  a  wild  goose  plows 

The  slanting  sky,  with  ululations  loud, 

Like  a  lost  soul ;  the  browning  woods  are  bowed 
With  dreams  of  shattered  splendor ;  half  a-drowse, 
A  leaf-choked  stream  steals  round  the  frosty  brows 

Of  amber  hills,  that  northward  nudge  and  crowd. 

Adown  the  air,  at  intervals,  is  borne 

The  far,  faint  blast  of  Boreal  bugles,  like 

The  dim  and  distant  murmur  of  a  vast 
Invading  army,  gathering  strength  to  strike — 
While  out  across  the  fallow  fields  forlorn 
The  spectre  of  a  storm  is  striding  past. 


'MEN  ARE  APRIL  WHEN  THEY  WOO" 

Fickle  maid,  with  laughing  eye, 

You  who  seldom  sob  or  sigh, 
Bear  with  patient  soul  and  kind 
Love's  appeal,  for  love  is  blind; 

Con  the  adage  trite  but  true, 

"Men  are  April  when  they  woo." 

Answer  not  with  scoff  and  scorn 

If  a  lover  all  forlorn 

Bend  on  you  his  eager  face, 
Pleading  low  your  sovereign  grace; 

Give  good  heed,  yet  keep  in  view, 

"Men  are  April  when  they  woo." 


The  Lute  of  Life 155 

Still  a  further  secret  know: 

April  breezes  often  blow 

Into  storms  that  rage  and  grind, 
Leaving  wreck  and  death  behind; 

So,  beware!  my  pretty  shrew, 

"Men  are  April  when  they  woo." 

She  who  dallies  most  will  learn 
'Tis  not  best  to  slight  and  spurn 

Passion,  when  it  shines  and  speaks 

In  the  eyes  and  on  the  cheeks, 
Even  tho'  the  saw  be  true, 
"Men  are  April  when  they  woo." 


'T  IS  ALWAYS  SUNDAY  IN  THE  WOODS 

"  'T  is  always  Sunday  in  the  woods," 

She  said — the  bonnie  wife  of  mine — 
As  thro'  the  leaf-walled  solitudes 

We  passed  beneath  the  arching  vine ; 

We  saw  the  sunbeams  slant  and  shine, 
Like  tongues  of  flame  at  Pentecost, — 

We  sipped  the  sacramental  wine 
From  many  a  chalice  gold-emboss'd. 

Outlined  against  the  templed  hills, 

The  living  symbols  of  the  Lord 
We  saw, — and  down  a  thousand  rills 

The  praises  of  His  name  were  poured ; 

Above  us  mighty  organs  roared, 
And  hidden  pipers  blew  and  blew 

Such  strains  of  heavenly  accord 
As  never  art  attaineth  to. 

The  aisles  were  carpeted  with  flowers, 
The  pews  with  emerald  were  plushed, 

And  from  a  hundred  wreathen  towers 
The  silver  chimes  of  morning  gushed ; 


156  The  Lute  of  Life 

Anon,  arid  all  the  space  was  hushed, 
As  when,  within  cathedrals  dim, 

The  body  of  the  Christ  is  crushed, 
And  Christians  quaff  the  blood  of  Him. 

'T  is  always  Sunday  in  the  woods ! 

The  cattle  down  the  valley  pass, 
In  lazy-moving  multitudes, 

To  where  the  river  gleams  like  glass; 

The  birds,  in  one  symphonic  mass 
Of  benedictions,  flood  the  airs, 

And  all  the  insect-haunted  grass 
Is  sibilant  with  whispered  prayers. 

Around  the  rock-built  altars  crowd 

The  patient  oaks,  as  prone  to  pour 
Their  paeans  to  the  bannered  cloud 

In  golden  glory  floating  o'er ; 

Green-robed,  they  stand  forevermore 
Within  their  dreamy  vastitudes, 

Devout  as  Druids  to  the  core — 
'T  is  always  Sunday  in  the  woods. 


A  GARLAND  FOR  THE  DEAD 

Dumb  be  the  bugle  and  the  drum, 

And  light  the  footsteps  o'er  the  brave; 

'Tis  not  in  festal  throng  we  come, 
With  lips  that  laugh  and  plumes  that  wave ; 

Nay!  nay!  a  holier  task  is  ours, — 

Love  writes  his  elegy  with  flowers. 

When  May  drops  down  the  rolling  year, 
And  lightly  leads  her  choral  train, 

We  turn  with  loving  homage  here 
To  strew  these  tokens  o'er  the  slain — 

O'er  those  who  perished  when  the  tide 

Of  wild  war  swept  the  country  wide. 


The  Lute  of  Life  157 


Each  rounded  fortress  at  our  feet 

Enwraps  a  hero's  patriot  fire, — 
Long  since  that  heart  has  ceased  to  beat, 

That  valiant  spirit  to  aspire; 
Nor  sabre's  clang  nor  cannon's  roar 
Shall  break  the  warrior's  slumber  more. 

Among  the  tombs  we  idly  stray, 

Our  souls  with  mournful  memories  rife, 

Till  almost  in  the  glare  of  day 
Those  wasted  comrades  spring  to  life ; 

And  here,  amidst  the  fields  and  flowers, 

We  seem  to  clasp  dead  hands  in  ours. 

Nor  here  alone  does  memory  trace 
Her  sable  lines  of  dumb  despair, — 

On  many  a  distant  battle-place 

Their  eyeless  sockets  upward  stare, 

Where  never  weeping  kindred  come 

With  bended  head  and  muffled  drum. 

They  sleep  beside  the  Tennessee, 

By  Donelson's  old  ruined  fort; 
In  Sherman's  pathway  to  the  sea 

The  pale  battalions  hold  their  court; 
From  Franklin,  Shiloh,  Malvern  Hill, 
They  answer  to  the  death-roll  still. 

On  Mission  Ridge  the  wild-birds  chant 
Above  the  gray  blouse  and  the  blue, 

And  where  the  gallant  hosts  of  Grant 

Stormed  Vicksburg,  there  the  dead  are,  too; 

Their  records,  writ  with  shot  and  shell, 

Show  how  they  fought  and  how  they  fell. 

They  rest  by  Libby's  ruined  pile, 

From  Georgia's  hell  their  wraiths  arise; 

They  sleep  beside  the  dark  Belle  Isle, 
And  'neath  the  Carolina  skies, — 


158 The  Lute  of  Life 

A  shadowy  band  and  desolate, 
Whose  graves  no  hand  may  decorate. 

By  dim  lagoons  where  serpents  trail, 
And  seldom  human  footsteps  pass, 

Their  bones  are  whitening  in  the  gale 
And  glistening  in  the  tangled  grass, 

Their  guns  still  mold'ring  in  their  grasp — 
The  friends  that  felt  their  parting  clasp. 

:):  ;K  *  *  * 

The  pyramids  by  Cheops  built 
At  length  shall  crumble  and  decay, 

But  never  blood  for  Freedom  spilt 
The  tears  of  heaven  shall  wash  away; 

A  sacred  symbol  shall  it  be 

Of  those  who  died  for  liberty. 


A  HYMN  OF  CONSOLATION 

[A  friend  of  the  writer,  having  lost  an  only  thild,  and 
•finding  small  comfort  in  the  promises  of  science, 
and  still  less  in  the  unsatisfying  tenets  of  diversified 
beliefs,  despairingly  inquires  if  the  poets,  as  a  class, 
accept  the  doctrine  of  immortality.] 

What  use  is  your  philosophy,  my  friend, 
Your  boasted  science  faithfully  pursued, 

If  still  you  can  not  see  beyond  the  end 
The  growing  proof  of  some  eternal  good? 

Of  what  avail  the  midnight  toil  of  years, 

The  patient  poring  over  books,  apart, 
If,  after  all,  the  only  end  be  tears 

Forever  falling  on  a  doubting  heart? 

What  boots  the  pallor  of -your  aching  brow, 
Bent  with  the  weight  of  cold,  scholastic  lore, 

If  you  can  not  discover,  even  now, 

Some  little  glimmer  of  the  farther  shore? 


The  Lute  of  Life  159 

If  science  can  not  soothe  your  heart's  unrest, 
Nor  pledge  of  priesthood  palliate  your  pain, 

Go  to  the  poets  with  your  wants  confess'd, 
And  you  shall  seek  for  solace  not  in  vain. 

On  their  large  vision  lovingly  rely, 

The  prophets  they,  who  walk  the  outer  wall, — 
The  oracles  of  immortality, 

On  whose  white  brows  the  deathless  splendors  fall. 

Like  those  brave  doves  that  left  the  stranded  Ark, 
Our  poets  breast  the  deluge  and  the  strife, 

And  o'er  the  waste  of  waters,  wild  and  dark, 
Bring  back  the  tokens  of  eternal  life. 

If  disappointed  still,  go  feed  your  fire 
With  every  dreary  and  delusive  scroll 

Which  fails  to  satisfy  the  high  desire 

That  pleads  to-night  for  answer  in  your  soul. 

Then  turn  at  last  to  Nature!     Lie  full  prone 
Upon  her  breast  with  meek,  submissive  heart, 

And  heed  the  consolations  which,  alone, 
Her  lips  with  fullest  fervency  impart. 

What  proofs  are  hers,  you  ask?    No  idle  play 
Of  empty  vaporings,  but  one  vast  breath 

Of  blest  assurance,  brimming  all  the  day 
With  floods  of  promise  overflowing  death. 

The  smallest  atom  at  her  finger-tips 

Gives  death  the  lie  and  puts  to  flight  all  fear; 
The  rose  of  hope  still  reddens  on  her  lips, 

And  ripens  to  new  beauty,  year  by  year. 

There  is  a  future!    The  reviving  grass 
That  slowly  conquers  the  unyielding  sod 

Proclaims  that  naught  eternally  can  pass 
Beyond  the  quick,  recalling  touch  of  God. 


i6o The  Lute  of  Life 

There  is  a  future !     Life  is  but  begun ! 

Unaging  planets,  singing  as  they  roll 
Their  golden  revolutions  round  the  sun, 

Make  proclamation  of  it  to  the  soul. 

She  is  not  dead,  that  little  girl  of  yours, 
Nothing  that  ever  lived  shall  ever  die — 

For  Life  itself  is  but  a  phase  of  Force, 
And  Force  the  flower  of  Immortality. 


OLD  SOLDIERS 

From  corner  to  corner  the  old  men  shift, — 

Shift  together  from  shade  to  shine, — 
Battered  old  ships  of  the  line  adrift, 

Tumbled  and  tossed  by  the  breeze  and  brine; 
Jolly  old  fellows,  they  flock  together 

Here  and  there  in  the  patches  of  sun, 
Crippled  and  wrinkled,  and  brown  as  leather, 

Each  with  a  story  of  brave  deeds  done. 

Gray  their  heads,  but  their  hearts  are  glad — 

Glad  with  the  dreams  of  an  elder  day 
When  the  face  of  the  world  was  not  so  sad, 

And  not  so  eager  to  turn  away ; 
These  are  the  men  who  stood  four-square 

To  the  storms  that  blew,  when  the  earthquake  shock 
Of  battle  broke  on  the  startled  air 

And  we  felt  the  fortress  of  freedom  rock. 

We  smile  to-day  as  we  pass  them  by 

With  barely  a  thought  of  the  time  when  they, 
With  bounding  step  and  with  beaming  eye, 

Followed  the  old  proud  flag  away 
To  the  music  of  pulsing  drums  that  beat 

Far  back  in  the  bloody  years,  when  we 
Were  children  playing  about  the  street, 

As  fleet  of  foot  as  the  winds  and  free. 


The  Lute  of  Life 161 

But  ah!  in  the  books  of  the  after-time, 

In  the  land  of  liberty's  large  advance, 
These  men  will  live  in  the  poet's  rhyme, 

And  brighten  the  pages  of  war's  romance; 
To-day  we  laugh  at  the  jokes  they  crack, 

But  down  in  the  centuries  yet  to  be, 
Men  and  women  will  follow  their  track 

Through  volumes  of  ancient  history. 


A1J  things  that  we  can  hear  or  see, 

To-night,  seem  happy.  Every  tree 
Is  palpitant  with  voice  and  wing, 
And  vibrant  with  the  breathing  spring. 

The  very  grass  is  tremulous 

With  music,  floating  up  to  us 
So  softly,  spiritu'lly  clear, 
We  seem  to  feel  it — not  to  hear. 

The  moonlight's  lustre  leaking  through 
The  bending  blossoms,  pearled  with  dew, 
Is  so  delicious,  so  divine, 
We  quaff  its  splendor  like  a  wine. 
Only  the  faintest  wind  is  curled 
About  the  pale,  enamored  world, 
And  drowsy  perfumes  slip  and  drip 
From  every  pansy's  pouting  lip. 

Starlight  and  melody  and  dreams ! 

The  lover's  and  the  poet's  themes, — 
The  same  that  once  entranced  and  won 
The  listening  maids  of  Babylon — 

That  charm'd  the  ear  and  caught  the  smiles 

Of  Beauty  in  the  Grecian  Isles, — 
That  lulled  in  old  Italian  dells 
The  Roman  lads  and  damosels. 


ii 


1 62  The  Lute  of  Life 


On  such  enchanting  nights  as  these, 

Our  spirits  for  a  moment  seize 
The  ravishment  of  life  that  runs, 
Exuberant,  thro'  stars  and  suns; 

And  as  we  catch  the  whirl  and  whir, 

The  planetary  pulse  and  stir, 

We  break  the  seals  of  sense,  and  scan 
The  majesty  of  God  and  man. 


LOUISVILLE 
(MARCH  27,  1890) 

Day  slumbered,  and  the  storm-dogs  all  were  tied 
Fast  by  their  kennels  in  the  fading  West, 
Save  one,  the  swiftest  and  the  savagest, 

A  dreadful  brute,  red-fanged  and  fiery-eyed, 

Who  slipped  his  slackened  leash  and  bounded  wide, 
Deep-baying,  down  the  dusk,  with  shaggy  breast, 
Precipitate,  and  panting,  and  possess'd 

Of  terrors  which  the  darkness  multiplied. 

God !  that  some  Bruxton,  rising  in  his  might, 
Had  choked  the  monster's  life  out  ere  his  mouth 
Had  set  its  teeth  upon  the  helpless  South 

And  wrought  the  havoc  of  that  fearful  night ; — 
O  Death,  how  multiform!    O  Life,  how  frail! 
How  filmy,  O  Mortality,  thy  veil ! 


LIFE'S  HOROSCOPE 

"O,  what  is  the  time  of  day  ?"  I  said 

To  a  school-boy  humming  a  spring-time  song ; 
His  feet  were  brown  and  his  cheeks  were  red, 
And  he  answered,  shaking  his  curly  head, 

"  'Tis  nine  o'clock,  and  the  day  is  long, — 
'Tis  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning." 


The  Lute  of  Life  163 

"O,  what  is  the  time  of  day  ?"  said  I, 

To  a  farmer  laboring  ankle-deep 
In  the  new-mown  hay, — and  he  made  reply, 
As  he  turned  a  tired  look  at  the  sky, 

"  "Tis  after  twelve,  by  the  watch  I  keep, 
And  the  weather  is  warm  for  reaping." 

"O,  what  is  the  time  of  day  ?"  I  spake, 

To  an  old  man  crooning  an  old-time  tune ; 
The  hearth's  dull  embers  he  tried  to  rake 
As  he  heard  the  winds  in  the  garret  shake, 
And  he  said,  "  'Tis  late  in  the  afternoon, 
And  the  night  will  soon  be  falling." 

"THE  EYES  OF  ELEANORA" 

As  the  light  of  a  star  is  found, 
By  day,  in  the  sunless  ground, 

Where  the  river  of  silence  lies, — 
So  the  spirit  of  beauty  dwells, 
O  love,  in  the  mimic  wells 

Of  thy  large,  thy  luminous  eyes. 

As  out  of  a  turbulent  night   . 
A  lost  bird  turns  to  the  light 

Of  a  desolate  dreamer's  room, — 
So,  forth  from  the  storm  of  thine  eyes, 
A  passionate  splendor  flies 

To  my  soul  through  the  inter-gloom. 

As  a  lily  quivers  and  gleams 

All  night  by  the  darkling  streams 

That  dream  in  the  underlands, — 
So,  up  from  the  haunted  lakes 
Of  thy  shadowy  eyes,  Love  shakes 

The  snows  of  her  beck'ning  hands. 

As  clusters  of  new  worlds  dawn, 
When  the  infinite  night  comes  on, 


1 64 The  Lute  of  Life 

In  the  measureless,  moonless  skies — 
So  the  planet  of  love  burns  high, 
O  sweet,  when  the  day  sweeps  by, 

In  the  dusk  of  thy  orient  eyes. 

MARCH 

The  gables  of  the  farm-house  groan, 
And  down  the  orchard's  barren  rows, 
Beyond  the  hills,  a  cloud  of  crows 

Against  the  windy  west  is  blown. 

The  falling  sun  is  fringed  with  mist, 
And  eastward,  like  an  Indian  queen, 
The  moon  at  intervals  is  seen 

Thro'  dripping  rifts  of  amethyst. 

A  few  stray  flakes  of  snow — and  then 
The  all-night  pattering  on  the  pane 
Ot  slumber-wooing  sleet  and  rain — 

Then  morning — and  the  winds  again! 


ON  PARTING  WITH  LOUISE 

It  matters  not  what  you  may  think, 
Nor  matters  it  what  I  may  feel, 

To-night  we  part  upon  the  brink 
Of  many  joys — for  woe  or  weal. 

Not  any  word  remains  to  say, 
Only  a  silent  clasp  of  hands — 

A  smile — then  we  must  turn  away 
To  hide  what  either  understands. 

To  you  the  future  is  a  scroll 

Of  golden  promise ;  but  for  me, 

I  find  few  pledges  in  my  soul 
Of  any  pleasures  yet  to  be. 


The  Lute  of  Life  165 


We  met,  and  in  each  other's  eyes 
We  saw — but,  O,  forgive  my  pen ! 

The  guarded  gates  of  Paradise 

Swing  open  once — then  close  again. 

Yet  would  I  scorn  to  bring  one  shade 
Of  sadness  to  those  bright  blue  eyes ; 

I  only  wish  the  fates  had  stayed 
Their  plans,  and  made  them  otherwise. 

But  here's  my  hand !  Good-night — good-by- 
To  every  plighted  vow  be  true  ; 

Yet,  sometime,  when  the  night  draws  nigh, 
Give  me  such  thoughts  as  I  give  you. 


TO  A  CRITIC 

[*  *  *  Why  not  take  the  same  trouble  to  write  a 
poem?  *  *  *  If  we  were  obliged  to  hew  sonnets 
and  romances  out  of  Egyptian  granite,  we  would 
better  appreciate  what  we  are  about. — JULIAN  HAW- 
THORNE.] 

So  you  would  make  rules  for  the  poet, — you ! 
You  would  have  him  to  hammer  and  grind  and  hew 
Till  his  song  stood  forth  like  a  statue  cold, 
Perfect  of  form  but  a  thing  unsouled, — 
Damn'd  by  a  glance  at  the  worn-out  tools 
That  fell  from  the  fingers  of  art's  dead  fools; — 
And  you  would  make  rules  and  rules  and  rules, 
And  chisel  out  epics  in  shops  and  schools, 
And  hammer  out  sonnets  and  beat  out  songs 
On  the  heart's  hot  anvil  with  sledges  and  tongs. 

Where  is  the  rule  that  the  catbird  learned 
When  the  tide  of  his  soul  into  song  was  turned? 
What  delicate  master  sand-papered  the  throat 
Of  the  skylark,  and  polished  his  first  wild  note? 
Who  modeled  the  music — who  scribbled  the  score — 


1 66  The  Lute  of  Life 


The  ripples  rehearse  to  the  rock-rimmed  shore? 
And  where  is  the  critic — aye,  where  is  he — 
Who  tutored  the  tempest  and  tuned  the  sea? 
O  pitiful  prater !  the  skies  and  the  seas 
Can  answer  the  question — and  only  these. 


LOVE  AND  DUTY 

As  flakes  of  foam  or  drops  of  dew 

Meet,  melt,  and  mingle — shape  and  hue ; — 

As  parted  clouds  together  merge 

Their  splendors  at  the  twilight's  verge — 

As  stately  ships  from  havens  wide 

Sail  home  and  anchor  side  by  side — 

As  warbling  lutes  to  lovers  lend 

A  double  rapture  when  they  blend — 

So  I  conceive  the  soul  of  beauty 

Is  found  when  Love  is  one  with  Duty. 

As  flowers  neglected  swiftly  burn 
Their  lives  out  in  the  marble  urn — 
As  grasses  droop  when  freshening  rains 
Forsake,  too  long,  the  pleading  plains — 
As  passions  tire  when  those  once  true 
Prove  recreant  and  turn  from  view — 
So  Love,  alas !  divorced  from  Duty, 
Doth  perish,  dispossessed  of  beauty, — 
And  Duty,  like  a  widowed  dove, 
Disheartened  dies  when  robbed  of  Love. 


IN  THE  LAZY  TWILIGHT 

To  lie  in  the  hammock  at  dusk,  and  swing 
To  the  runes  of  the  nesting  birds  that  ring 
From  the  emerald  tents  of  the  tranquil  trees — 
To  toss  all  care  to  the  cooling  breeze, 
And  sway  and  swing  in  a  vision  fond 
Of  some  fair  land  in  the  dim  Beyond — 


The  Lute  of  Life  167 

To  turn  to  the  past,  and  twine  and  tie 
In  tangles  of  Fancy  the  days  gone  by — 
To  waft  at  will  in  an  airy  boat, 
As  feathery-light  as  the  floss  afloat, 
And  drift  and  dream,  and  give  full  play 
To  the  soul,  fair-winged,  as  it  soars  away — 
These,  these  are  the  joys  that  a  mortal  knows 
Who  can  laugh  at  the  world  o'er  his  upturned  toes. 

Hard  and  sad  is  the  world  by  day, 

When  the  cruel  and  kinglike  Mind  holds  sway, 

But  soft  and  glad  is  the  twilight  hour, 

When  the  sovereign  Heart  asserts  its  power ; 

Rough-  is  the  hand  and  the  face  hard-set 

When  the  brow  with  the  beads  of  toil  is  wet, 

But  sweet  is  the  smile  and  soft  the  palm 

When  the  hammock  swings  in  the  evening  calm — 

When  the  baby's  throne  is  the  father's  breast, 

As  he  lies  in  the  sea-grass  web,  at  rest, 

And  the  fond  young  mother  sits  and  sings, 

Hard  by,  with  her  hand  on  the  trailing  strings. — 

Heaven  is  pictured  as  far  away, 

By  bachelor-bards  and  hermits  gray, 

But  out  of  the  twilight  dim  there  strays 

A  glint  of  its  gold  when  the  hammock  sways. 


A  FRAGMENT 

There  is  no  panacea  known 
To  soothe  the  soul  when  hope  is  flown — 
There  is  no  balm  the  wound  to  heal 
When  Love  withdraws  his  dripping  steel. 

The  mangled  heart  may  still  beat  on 
When  everything  it  prized   is  gone — 
Throb  on,  without  one  pleasing  pain 
To  indicate  if  life  remain. 


1 68  The  Lute  of  Life 


God  pity  him  who  can  not  die 
When  all  his  dreams  in  ashes  lie, 
And  through  his  soul's  dismantled  hall 
The  spectral  past  holds  carnival. 


WOMAN 

Uncomprehended  and  uncomprehending, 
The  darling,  but  the  despot,  of  our  days — 
Smiling,  she  smites  us — fondling  us,  she  flays ; 

Still  madly  loving  us,  yet  still  contending, 

And  proudest  when  her  conquered  heart  is  bending, 
And  most  unyielding  when  she  most  obeys — 
She  is  so  fashioned  that  her  face  betrays 

The  struggle  ended,  long  before  the  ending. 

She's  like  a  bubble  borne  along  the  air, 
Forever  brightest  just  before  it  breaks — 
Or  like  a  lute  that's  mutest  ere  it  wakes 
In  trembling  ecstasies  of  love  divine ; 
Woman  is  always  just  across  the  line 

Of  her  own  purposes.     Beware!  beware! 


ON  WABASH  STREAM 

Good-night !  good-night !    On  Wabash  stream 

The  rising  stars  blink,  one  by  one  ; 
Here  where  the  purling  waters  gleam, 

The  jet-black  eyes  of  Delia  shone ; 
Here  first  was  breathed  the  ardent  sigh, 

As  fast  the  trembling  tear-drops  came, 
And  here,  where  darkling  meadows  lie, 

Our  kindling  passions  burst  to  flame. 

Good-night !  good-night !    On  Wabash  stream 
The  lighted  waves  no  more  I  see ; 

Our  vows  were  fickle  as  the  beam 
That  plays  along  the  twilight  sea. 


The  Lute  of  Life  169 


Good-night !    The  satire  oft  is  said — 
Love  lisps  it  with  his  roguish  eyes ; 

To  man  deceived  and  maid  misled, 
Good-night, — when  will  the  world  be  wise? 


A  MARBLE  MONARCH 

Inanimate  perfection !  lo,  he  stands 
A  tongueless  wonder,  while  the  ages  turn 
To  ashes  at  his  feet — a  sinless  growth 
Of  soulless  grace  and  silent  majesty — 
Holding  his  ancient  reign  amidst  the  wreck 
Of  empires  and  the  crumbling  skeletons 
Of  ravished  centuries. 

From  halls  of  pomp, 
From  purple  thrones  to  populated  tombs, 
A  thousand  carnal  kings  have  passed  away, 
And  faded  into  legends  quaint  with  age, 
Since  he,  this  subtly  chiseled  sovereign, 
Was  liberated  from  the  shapeless  stone 
Into  the  sunlight  of  the  streaming  years. 

But  Time,  the  old  Iconoclast,  at  length 
Will  conquer,  and  the  marble  miracle, 
Battered  and  broken  by  the  Titan's  blows, 
Will  topple  from  its  antique  base,  and  leave 
No  vestige  of  its  glory  on  the  globe ; — 
While  he  whose  cunning  fingers  fashioned  it 
Shall  live  a  factor  in  the  world's  design, 
An  inspiration  and  a  force  to  shape 
The  destinies  that  gird  the  universe. 


A  GLIMPSE 

Let  no  dull  thing  be  said  about  her, 
Let  every  word  that  hints  of  her 
Be  silken  as  the  gossamer — 

The  world  would  be  a  blank  without  her. 


i  ;o The  Lute  of  Life 

All  sweetest  dreams  are  part  of  her, 
And  every  bird-song  seems  to  be 
The  fragment  of  a  melody 

Blown  from  the  golden  heart  of  her. 

A  light,  elusive  thing  is  she, 
Her  flesh  a  blushing  lily,  soft 
As  moonlight  in  a  midnight  croft, 

A  warm  sweet  breath  of  spring  is  she. 

She  ne'er  can  see  how  fair  she  is, 
Nor  can  she  know  the  sweet  desire 
That,  like  a  swift-consuming  fire, 

Pursues  her  everywhere  she  is. 


GENIUS 

Not  those  alone,  who,  lapped  in  eider-down, 

And  shrined  in  templed  cities,  can  lay  claim 
To  Nature's  purple — to  the  poet's  crown, 

And  the  proud  prestige  of  the  minstrel's  fame ; 

Genius  is  even-handed !  the  rapt  Dame 
Alike  salutes  the  beggar  and  the  king 

With  her  warm  touches  and  her  lips  of  flame, 
Bids  potentates  be  mute  and  peasants  sing, 
And  o'er  the  lowliest  roof  outspreads  her  dewy 
wing. 

With  her  desires  ye  may  dispute  in  vain, 

Ye  pampered  sons  of  pleasure, — ye  will  find 
Where  least  expected  her  supreme  disdain, 

For  she  is  fickle,  and  her  ways  are  blind ; 

Think  not  to  woo  her  with  a  thoughtless  mind, 
Nor  win  her  with  the  witcheries  of  art, — 

Beneath  the  tatters  of  the  trampled  hind 
She 's  quite  as  apt  to  lodge  the  envious  dart 
As  'neath  the  royal  robe  that  hides  an  empty  heart. 


The  Lute  of  Life  171 


RONDEAUX  OF  REMEMBRANCE 

In  airy  halls  they  dwell  to-day, 

These  friends  of  ours! — On  every  spray 

Again  the  blooms  of  summer  cling, 

Again  the  bonnie  bluebirds  sing, 
But  they  come  not,  for  aye  and  aye. 

We  hear  their  voices  far  away, 
Beyond  the  night,  beyond  the  day, 
Beyond  the  sound  of  sorrowing, 
In  airy  halls. 

They  lived — they  loved — the  Blue  and  Gray, — 
They  fought  as  brave  men  fight,  alway, — 

They  fell — God  knows  their  suffering! 

God  knows  we  wept  when  Death's  fell  sting 
First  set  their  stormy  souls  astray, 
In  airy  halls. 

They're  now  at  rest !    No  bugle's  bray, 
No  sound  of  flute,  no  virelay, 

No  murmur  of  returning  spring, 

Nor  any  wild-bird's  caroling, 
Can  wake  them  more — ah,  well-a-day ! 

Beneath  the  loving  light  of  May, 
Where  we  our  tender  tributes  pay 
In  tears  of  sweet  remembering, 
They're  now  at  rest. 

We  sigh — we  sing  in  strains  that  say 
To  them  whose  brows  are  bound  with  bay, 
"God  bless  you !"  while  we  wreathe  and  ring 
Their  tombs  with  amaranth.    A  king 
For  such  a  death  might  pray,  but  they — 
They're  now  at  rest. 


172  The  Lute  of  Life 


THE  GIRL  'AT  KEP'  A  DIARY 

We  hed  a  girl  at  our  house  who  kep'  a  diary, 

Yit  otherwise  her  health  wuz  good,  ez  fur  ez  I  could 

see; 

But  instid  o'  gittin'  better,  her  disease  begun  to  take 
A  seeryus  turn  'at  worried  me,  a-sleepin'  er  awake. 
The  day  she  unpacked  her  trunk  I  might  o'  smelt  a 

mouse, 
When  I  saw  a  big  blank  book  er  two  a-layin'  roun'  the 

house ; 
But  I  never  guessed  the  troubles  'at  wuz  marchin'  down 

on  me, 
When  I  happened  to  engage  a  girl  'at  kep'  a  diary. 

She  wuz  plumper  than  a  pigeon,  an'  ez  purty  ez  a 

peach 

'At  dangles  on  a  upper  limb,  a  little  out  o'  reach; 
Her  hair  wuz  long  an'  fluffy  ez  it  fluttered  down  her 

back, 
An'  yaller  ez  a  bunch  o'  straw  a-hangin'  frum  the 

stack ; 

An'  yit  she  wuz  the  oddest  girl  'at  ever  undertook 
To  rassel  with  a  dish-rag,  er  dust  a  house,  er  cook ; 
In  fact,  I  noticed  frum  the  start  she  had  a  curious  vein 
'At  p'inted  to  the  whirlin'  uv  a  wheel  within  her  brain. 

When  fryin'  meat,  er  churnin',  er  fabricatin'  pies, 
She  allus  had  a  skeery-like  expression  in  her  eyes, 
Ez  if  she  wuz  a-lookin'  thro'  the  garden  gate  to  find 
A  thought  er  two  'at  seemed  to  be  escapin'  frum  her 

mind; 
An'  frequently  I've  seed  her  drap  the  skillet  er  the 

churn 
An'  dash  across  the  kitchen  to  that  dratted  book  o' 

hern, 

An'  set  down  by  the  winder-sill,  an'  write,  by  geminee ! 
Till  mother  got  the  supper  an'  invited  her  an'  me. 


The  Lute  of  Life 173 

When  the  weather  got  so  pesky  'at  we  reckoned  it  a  sin 
Fer  anybody  roun'  the  house  to  laff,  er  even  grin, 
W'y,  that  air  girl  'ud  grab  her  book  an'  gallop  out  o* 

sight, 
An'  bolt  the  bedroom  door  behind,  an'  write  an'  write 

an'  write; 
But  what  she  writ  we  never  knowed,  an'  yit  it  'peared 

to  me 
She  wuz  pennin'  her  impressions  uv  the  whole  blamed 

f  amilee ; 
W'y,  she'd  sock  them  eyes  upon  us  with  an  all-de- 

vourin'  look, 
An'  then  she'd  duck  her  yaller  head  an'  scribble  in  her 

book. 

I  tell  ye,  it  wuz  tryin'  on  the  patience  uv  us  all — 

In  summer  it  wuz  bad  enough,  but  look  out  fer  the  fall ! 

Ef  any  frien's  er  neighbors  happened  in  to  hev  a  chat, 

The  girl  'at  kep  a  diary  set  mummer  'an  a  cat ; 

But  jes'  the  minute  they  wuz  gone  she'd  sidle  frum  her 

nook 

An'  go  a-bilin'  up  the  stairs  to  git  her  blasted  book, 
Ez  ef  she  thought  To-morrer  might  be  side-tracked  on 

its  way 
To  meet  the  facts  expected  on  the  up-train  uv  To-day. 

Ef  ever  a  contention  riz  a-twixt  'at  girl  an'  me, 
Regardin'  dates,  fer  instance,  er  some  anniversaree — 
Some  little,  triflin',  onery  thing  'at  ought  a-bin  fergot, 
An'  wuzn't  wuth  the  breath  we  spent  upon  it,  like  ez 

not — 

I  say,  jes'  when  the  argymints  wuz  comin'  all  my  way, 
An'  I  wuz  puttin'  clinchers  in,  expectin'  'em  to  stay, 
She'd  pull  that  book  upon  me  with  a  satisfyin'  grin, 
An'  prove  her  p'ints,  ezactly,  ez  I  flattened  an'  give  in. 

The  longer  'at  she  stayed  with  us,  the  sicklier  we  grew ; 
She  had  us  wher'  she  wanted  us,  an'  kep'  us  in  review. 
Ye  see,  she  got  the  drap  on  us  afore  we  wuz  aware 


174 The  Lute  of  Life 

'At  all  the  fam'ly  weaknesses  wuz  bein'  pickled  there. 
The  mother  tuck  to  droopin',  an'  Isabell  begun 
To  wobble  like  a  chicken  'at  wuz  chillin'  in  the  sun, 
An'  ever  livin'  thing  around  wuz  gittin'  thin  an'  pore, 
Frum  the  redbird  in  the  winder  to  the  ol'  cat  on  the 
floor. 

She  stayed  with  us  about  six  months,  an'  when  she  went 

away 
An'  tuck  her  books,  I  kind  o'  felt  'at  on  the  Jedgment 

Day 

She'd  be  a-standin'  at  the  Bar  a-watchin'  out  fer  me, 
An'  instigatin'  Peter  to  inspec'  my  pedigree; 
She  understand  me  thro'  and  thro' — knows  all  my 

hooks  and  crooks, 

A-cause  she's  got  'em  written  in  'er  everlastin'  books ; 
An'  when  I  think  o'  Heaven,  little  mercy  kin  I  see 
Ef  I  hev  got  to  face  the  girl  'at  kep'  a  diary. 


BITTER-SWEET 

She  puzzles  me;  her  beauty  is  my  bane; 
Her  speech  belies  the  tempting  tenderness 
That  so  ensnares,  enslaves ;  no  sorceress 

Her  witcheries  may  rival,  if  she  deign 

To  ply  her  potencies. 

Pleasure  and  pain 

Are  ministrant  to  her ;  her  eyes'  caress 
Denies  the  cruelty  her  lips  express, 

As  rainbows  seem  repentant  of  the  rain. 

The  faultless  beauty  of  her  form  and  face, 
The  dewy  lustre  of  her  darkling  eye, 

Bewilder  and  perplex  me,  when  I  know 
That  in  her  heart  there  is  not  any  place 

Where  Love  may  find  a  lodgment,  even  tho' 
Prone  at  her  feet  he  piteously  cry. 


The  Lute  of  Life  175 

"GAUN  HAME" 

"Fareweel !"  she  said,  and  she  waved  her  hand 
From  the  stately  ship,  as  it  left  the  land 
For  a  far-off  shore. 

"Fareweel!"  said  she, 
"I  am  gaun  awa'  to  my  ain  countree, 
Where  the  gowans  grow,  and  my  laddie  lies 
Cauld  in  his  grave,  where  the  Ochils  rise, — 
To  the  land  o'  the  leal,  where  my  mither  dear 
Has  slumbered  for  mony  a  lang,  lang  year. 
Ghaist-like,  I  've  wandered  the  warld  sae  wide, 
A  wae-worn  lassie — an  unlo'ed  bride, — 
An'  now,  as  the  simmer  grows  sad  and  sere, 
An'  my  days  draw  doun  to  the  last  dim  year, 
I  am  driftin'  awa'  frae  a  frien'less  shore, 
To  the  hame  o'  the  happy,  ance  more,  ance  more." 
******** 

The  ship  went  down  in  the  roaring  sea, 
But  the  lady — she  reached  her  "ain  countree." 


IN  TEMPE  VALE 

In  Tempe  vale  the  sun  shines  fair, 

O'er  crystal  streams  forever  flowing, — 
On  Tempe's   rainbow-girdled   air 

The  velvet-breasted  flowers  are  blowing, 
And  up  the  valley,  everywhere, 

The  golden  orange  groves  are  glowing :- 
And  violets  uplift  their  eyes, 
Bewildered,  to  the  stooping  skies, 
Dreaming  all  day  of  Paradise; 

And  bluebells  from  the  tufted  sod, 
When  darkness  down  Olympus  dies, 

Outstretch  their  pearly  palms  to  God, 
And  pour  their  fragrant  sacrifice, 
And  all  the  world  is  in  a  trance 
Along  Peneus'  blue  expanse, 

In  Tempe  vale. 


1 76  The  Lute  of  Life 

In  Tempe  vale  no  sound  of  wars 
Goes  ever  to  the  mild-eyed  stars; 
No  lily's  breast  is  tinged  with  blood, 

No  dreamer  from  his  rest  is  driven, 
But  ever  from  the  drowsy  wood 

There  floateth  to  the  jeweled  heaven 
Eternal  lullabies,  like  those 
That  murmur  in  the  crimson  rose; 
Or  like  the  symphonies  that  break 
From  out  some  lone  enchanted  lake; 
Or  like  the  rhapsodies  that  quiver 
By  night  along  some  sacred  river, — 
Ah,  only  holiest  things  of  earth 
Spring  into  beauty  and  to  birth 

In  Tempe  vale. 

In  Temple  vale  no  bough  is  stirred, 

No  winds  are  in  the  conscious  tree; 
The  only  melodies  there  heard — 
Except  the  trill  of  some  wild  bird, 
Or  tumult  of  the  tippling  bee — 
Are  those  dim  strains  of  minstrelsy 
That  tingle  to  the  twilight  stars 
From  laughing  lutes  and  low  guitars 
On  many  a  Grecian  lover's  knee ; 
And  dark-eyed  maids,  with  lips  of  wine 
And  limbs  of  snow,  their  tresses  twine 
By  fountains  flashing  from  the  hills, 
And  all  the  golden  ether   spills 
s  A  summer  splendor  round  the  vine, 

In  Tempe  vale. 

In  Tempe  vale,  in  Tempe's  bowers, 
The  soul,  intoxicate  with  bliss, 

Goes  reeling  through  a  world  of  flowers 
That  hath  no  counterpart  in  this ; 

And  far  beneath  the  lote-tree's  shade, 

Where  glow-worms  glimmer  in  the  grass, 

Is  heard  the  lonely  serenade 


The  Lute  of  Life  177 


Of  some  heart-broken  nightingale; 

And  dew-drops,  like  a  sea  of  glass, 
Their  love-lights  up  the  valley  trail 

Until  the  night-tide  shadows  pass 
And  daylight  dawns  o'er  Tempe  vale, 
O'er  Tempe  vale. 

In  Tempe  vale  they  weave  the  dance 
Along  its  lone,  star-lighted  river, 

By  those  wild  grottoes  of  romance 
O'er  which  the  mellow  citrons  quiver, 
And  laughing  love  lives  on  forever! 

Ah,  nightly  to  the  cithern's  sigh 

The"  Muses,  from  their  haunts  on  high, 
Come  tripping  hither,  every  one, — 
And  Pan,  and  young  Endymion, 

And  Dian,  with  her  dapper  crew, 
The  piping  shepherd-lads,   and  all 
The  Dryads  o'er  the  mountain  wall, 

Come  thronging  to  the  revel,  too, 

In  Tempe  vale. 

To  Tempe  vale,  a  long  good-night! 

The  glamour  of  my  idle  dream 
Is  overpast.     My  waking  sight,  0 

Alas!  is  blinded  to  the  gleam 
And  beauty  of  that  valley  bright. 
Its  blissful  bowers  no  more  I  see, 

Its  peaceful  paths  have  passed  from  view, 
Yet  down  to  the  J^gean  Sea 

Still  fall  its  winding  waters  blue, 
Still  sings  the  bird  and  hums  the  bee 

In  every  nook  the  dreamer  knew. 
No   summer-poet's   fickle  thought 
On  Fancy's  pinions  ever  sought 
A  spot  with  sweeter  raptures  fraught, 
Than  Tempe  vale. 


12 


178  The  Lute  of  Life 


TO  RILEY 

I  borrow  half  my  zeal  from  you, 

My  brother — you  who  soar  and  sing, 
Like  some  impatient  skylark,  through 

The  welkin  with  unwearied  wing; 
With  eager  ear  I  turn  to  hear 
Your  song  so  dewy-sweet,  so  clear, 
So  silver-silken,  like  a  skein 

Of  passion  tangled  in  a  tune, 
Or  like  the  tinkle  of  .the  rain 

Upon  the  lily-lands  of  June, 
Or  like  the  dreamy  hum  of  bees, 
Faint-floating   from   acacia  trees, 

Thro'  all  the  drowsy  afternoon ; 

Or  like  the  low  and  limpid  rune 
Of  lotus-scented  streams  that  creep 
Among  the  hooded  hills  of  sleep, 

Forever  'neath  the  falling  moon. 

Few  singers  since  the  world  began, 

My  comrade,  e'er  blew  such  a  tone 
Of  joyance  from  the  Pipe  of  Pan 

As  your  warm  lips  have  lately  blown; 

No  grief  unknown,  no  old-worn  moan, 
Finds  voice  in  you;  your  songs  are  new 
As  April  lilacs,  dashed  with  dew; 
Your  themes  are  common,  but  your  thought 
Gleams  like  a  frightened  fire-fly  caught 

In  tangles  of  a  trellised  vine, 
Or  like  a  flashing  jewel  brought 

To  light  from  some  deserted  mine  ; 

Your  heart 's  a  chalice,  brimmed  with  wine 
Distilled  from  many  a  field  and  wood ; 
No  kinder  draught  the  gods  have  brewed 

Than  this  you  pour,  0  bard  benign ! 

Strange  spirit,  wrought  of  shade  and  shine, 
You  meet  and  master  every  mood. 


The  Lute  of  Life  179 

A  PAUSE  AT  THE  PORTAi; 
I 

I  reck  not  how  the  night  may  go — 
The  rains  may  fall,  the  winds  may  blow, 

And  vapors  curdle  as  they  fly; 
My  friends  are  gone,  my  fires  are  low, 

My  sands  are  run,  and  I  must  die. 

I  reck  not  of  the  roar  and  din 
Without,  for  all  is  peace  within, — 
My  soul  has  weathered  wave  and  blast,     • 
And  reached  the  open  seas  at  last. 

II 

I  turn  these  volumes  inside  out, 

And  cram  the  flames  with  scrolls  of  doubt 

That  I  and  other  fools  have  penned ; 
I  stir  the  ashes  with  a  shout, 

And  make  a  mockery  of  the  end. 

No  sophist's  wit,  no  bigot's  schism, 
Can  bridge  for  me  the  bleak  abysm 
That  edges  on  the  ebon  gates 
Where  Death,  the  sombre  warder,  waits. 

Ill 

I  reck  not  how  the  hours  go  by — 
The  earth  reels  from  me,  and  my  eye 

Is  blinded  with  the  winds  that  blow — 
Hark !  hark !  the  beck'ning  bugles  cry 

Adown  the  dark,  and  I  must  go. 

Poor,  bruis'd  old  world,  and  nigh  worn  out 
With  petty  chiselings  of  doubt, 
Good-by !  thy  lampless  years  are  done —         U\ 
Death  breaks  the  seals — I  see  the  sun ! 


i8o  The  Lute  of  Life 


A  VISION 

And  in  my  dream  of  beauty  I  beheld 

A  being  rapt  and  radiant  as  a  star, 
Beneath  whose  kindling  light  my  spirit  swelled 

To  melody — and,  streaming  from  afar, 

I  saw  the  specters  of  the  dawn  unbar 
The  gates  of  morning;  and  on  every  gale 

That  blew  around  Aurora's  bannered  car, 
I  saw  the  Summer's  censer-swingers  trail 
Their  odorous  incense  over  hill  and  dale. 

And  on  my  sight  uprose  a  golden  mist, 

Peopled  with  many  a  floating  form  and  fair, — 

A  Paradise  of  wandering  souls,   I  wist, 
Chained  to  the  shifting  Eden  of  the  air 
In  snowy  cavalcades  of  sweet  despair; 

And  some  had  harps  and  sang,  and  some  had  flowers, 
And  others  crowns, — and  all  were  debonair; 

And  everywhere  were  grottoes,  glades,  and  bowers, 

And  purling  fountains,  vistas,  shrines,  and  towers. 


AT  UNCLE  REUBEN  RAGAN'S 

At  Uncle  Reuben  Ragan's ! — why,  the  present  is  forgot 
At  the  very  faintest  mention  of  the  old  enchanted  spot ; 
And  swifter  than  a  swallow  skimming  down  the  dewy 

corn, 
My  memory  goes  laughing  back  to  boyhood's  mellow 

morn, — 
And  again  I  feel  the  breezes  of  the  beechwoods  on 

my  cheek, 
As  I  pass  with  bow  and  arrow  by  the  spring-house 

and  the  creek, 

And  merrily  wend  onward  to  the  Mecca  of  my  joys, 
To  spend  a  day  in  Paradise,  with  Uncle  Reuben's  boys. 

At  Uncle  Reuben  Ragan's  everything  was  fair  and 
sweet, 


The  Lute  of  Life 


From  the  blue  sky  bending  over,  to  the  blue  grass  at 

our  feet,  — 
From  the  lisp  and  trill  and  twitter  of  the  catbird  and 

the  lark, 
To  the  whippoorwill  that  whistled  from  the  dingle 

thro'  the  dark; 
The  days  were  full  of  riot,  and  the  nights  were  full 

of  rest 
As  balmy  as  the  moonlight  on  the  squirrel's  breezy 

nest  :  — 
As  I  plod  the  dim  past  over  and  recount  its  keenest 

joys, 
My  barefoot  fancy  wanders  off  with  Uncle  Reuben's 

boys. 

I  can  hear  the  walnuts  dropping  in  the  pasture,  as  of 

old, 
I  can  see  the  russets  rounding  into  solid  globes  of 

gold; 
I  can  see  the  bearded  chestnuts  clinging  to  the  brown- 

ing boughs, 
In  the  corner  of  the  orchard,  just  beyond  the  saddle- 

house  ; 
I  can  hear  the  cider  gushing  from  the  mill,  just  over 

there, 
On  the  slope,  across  the  hollow,  in  the  cool  October 

air:  — 

O,  I  live  the  old  life  over,  in  my  fancy,  as  my  mind 
Re-pictures  and  re-peoples  every  scene  it  left  behind. 

The  little  stream  that  toddled  down  the  yard,  and 

slipped  away 
Thro'  the  pasture,  still  is  tinkling  in  my  memory  to- 

day, 
And  the  barn  that  stood  beyond  it  seems  to  beckon  to 

me  still, 
With  its  ever-greedy  rat-traps,  and  its  old  red  fanning- 

mill; 


182 The  Lute  of  Life 

And  the  plum-patch  in  the  garden,  and  the  tall  mul- 
berry tree 

That  grew  beside  the  milk-house,  are  a-calling  back 
to  me, — 

And  again  the  maple  sugar  is  a-trickling  off  my  tongue 

Into  streams  of  sweeter  music  than  my  lips  have  ever 
sung. 

Count  my  ringers  three  times  over,  and  they  scarce 

make  up  the  years 
That  have  vanished,  like  a  vision,  in  the  torrent  of 

my  tears, 
Since  the  happy  days  of  boyhood,  ere  the  green  earth 

claimed  its  own, 
And  Uncle  sank  to  slumber  in  the  shadow  of  the 

stone : — 
Gone  the  many  forms  and  faces — but  a  scattered  few 

remain 
To  meet  us  and  to  greet  us,  at  the  old  homestead 

again ; 
And   I — well,   here   I'm   sitting   'neath   my   pines   in 

Illinois, 
And    drinking    cider — in    my    dreams — with    Uncle 

Reuben's  boys. 


AN  OUTLOOK 

[Read  at  the  laying  of  the  corner-stone  of  the  public 
school  building  in  EfKingham,  III.,  May  12,  1894.] 

Standing  here  in  the  light  of  the  May, 

What  see  we  in  the  coming  years  ? 
A  clamorous  army  in  grim  array 

Moving  with  banners  and  brands  and  spears — 
Thundering  hither  with  bloodshot  eyes, 

With   red   flags   flying,   and  menacing  breath 
Hissing  defiance  where  liberty  lies 

Bleeding  and  blind  on  the  field  of  death? 


The  Lute  of  Life 


What  can  the  prophet  of  freedom  see, 

Gazing  afar  on  the  days  to  come? 
Our  country  down  on  her  crippled  knee, 

Begging  for  mercy  with  white  lips  dumb  — 
Pleading  for  life  at  a  tyrant's  throne, 

Her  spirit  broken,  her  pride  undone, 
With  nothing  left  she  can  call  her  own 

In  the  land  of  Lincoln  and  Washington? 

Heaven  forbid  it,  O  gray-haired  seer! 

Bear  us  a  message,  but  let  it  be 
So  fraught  with  promise,  so  full  of  cheer, 

That  the  deaf  may  hear  and  the  blind  may  see; 
Tell  us  that  all  of  our  time's  unrest 

Is  only  a  vague,  disquieting  sense 
Of  a  passing  fear  in  the  people's  breast 

That  cometh  we  know  not  why  nor  whence. 

But  tell  us  the  truth,  O  prophet  gray! 

Read  us  the  tidings  of  God's  intents, 
That  we  in  our  weakness  may  see  our  way 

Under  the  shadow  of  vast  events  ; 
Mark  how  the  finger  of  destiny  swings, 

O  prophet,  and  whisper  a  word  to  our  souls, 
That  we  may  take  counsel  and  do  the  things 

That  He  shall  approve  as  the  age  unrolls. 

Around  and  about  us  the  days  grow  dim 

With  strange  forebodings  that  threaten  ill, 
And  yet  if  we  anchor  our  trust  in  Him 

Will  He  not  keep  and  protect  us  still? 
Are  we  not  the  pliable  instruments 

Of  some  high  purpose  not  understood, 
By  which  a  beneficent  providence 

Is  bringing  about  an  inscrutable  good? 

Aye,  thus  believing,  we  bid  you  build, 

O  master  workman,  above  this  stone 
The  prayers  of  a  people  whose  hearts  are  filled 


1 84 The  Lute  of  Life 

And  thrilled  with  the  promptings  of  love,  alone; 
Build  it,  O  Master,  to  faith  and  hope, 

To  knowledge,  to  truth,  and  to  charity, 
And  fashion  it  fair  with  as  broad  a  scope 

As  the  needs  of  a  brotherly  love  may  be. 

Build  it  to  beauty  and  liberty,  too, 

And  ere  it  is  done  and  your  scaffolds  drop, 
O  worthy  Master,  I  counsel  you 

To  leave  a  place  for  the  flag  on  top — 
And  when  it  is  finished,  above  the  door 

Inscribe  these  letters  in  grooves  of  stone: 
"Come  hither,  O  children,  both  rich  and  poor, 

My  wealth  is  abundant  and  all  your  own." 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY 

She  steers  the  stars  through  Heaven's  azure  deep ; 

She  lifts  the  leaden  eyelids  of  the  morn; 

On  distant  hills  she  winds  the  hunter's  horn, 
And  wakes  the  lonely  shepherd  from  his  sleep; 
She  scales  the  dizzy  ledge  where  torrents  leap, 

And  hangs  the  bloom  upon  the  bristling  thorn; 

She  sits  for  hours  in  solitudes  forlorn, 
With  downcast  eyes,  where  hapless  lovers  weep. 
When  Spring  comes  up  the  vale  in  Winter's  trace, 
She  plucks  the  blossom  from  the  bud's  embrace ; 

She  binds  the  golden  girdle  round  the  bee, 

And  lends  the  lily's  lustre  to  the  pea; 
She  curves  the  swallow's  wing,  and  guides  its  flight, 
And  tips  the  dewy  meads  with  twinkling  light. 

She  rides,  she  revels  on  the  rushing  storm, 
She  suns  her  pinions  on  the  rainbow's  rim — 
She  laves  in  mountain  pools  her  snowy  limb, 

As  sweetly  chaste  as  Dian  and  as  warm ; 

In  summer  fields  she  bares  her  blushing  arm, 
And  sings  among  the  reapers.  By  the  dim 
Light  of  autumnal  moons,  her  tresses  swim 


The  Lute  of  Life  185 

On  gales  Lethean,  with  assuasive  charm. 
Into  the  chamber  of  the  alchemist 

She  peers,  or,  through  some  half-closed  lattice,  sees 
Her  lover  by  the  wanton  night-wind  kissed. 

Anon,  she  walks  the  dim  Hesperides, 
Or,  mingling  with  the  spirits  of  the  mist, 

Dances  at  will  along  the  darkling  seas. 

A  TOAST  TO  THE  PAST 

[Read  at  the  reunion  of  the  Class  of  '72,  University 
of  Illinois,  May  27,  1892.] 

Into  a  beautiful  world  we  went, 

Twenty-four  years  ago — 
A  world  of  promise  and  rare  content, 

Twenty-four  years  ago ; 
Over  its  meadows  the  west-wind  blew 
Melodies  faint  as  a  ring-dove's  coo, 
And  everything  had  a  golden  hue, 

Twenty-four  years  ago. 

We  took  no  thought  of  the  flight  of  time, 

Twenty-four  years  ago, — 
We  stepped  to  the  tune  of  a  tinkling  rhyme, 

Twenty- four  years  ago ; 
Over  the  rim  of  the  morning  rose 
Glimmering  dreams  of  a  high  repose, 
Out  on  the  hills  where  the  laurel  grows, 

Twenty-four  years  ago. 

Lips  were  loving,  and  summers  were  sweet, 

Twenty-four  years  ago, — 
The  days  were  short  and  the  nights  were  fleet, 

Twenty-four  years  ago ; 
Beautiful,  innocent  hands  were  they 
That  crept  up  into  our  own,  and  lay 
There  in  a  most  confiding  way, 

Twenty-four  years  ago. 


1 86 The  Lute  of  Life 

Friends  were  many  and  foes  were  few, 

Twenty-four  years  ago, — 
Hands  were  loyal  and  hearts  were  true, 

Twenty-four  years  ago ; 
Ever  among  us  our  Masters  went, 
Stooped  with  the  weight  of  a  large  intent, 
Tall-browed  tutors  and  eloquent, 

Twenty-four  years  ago. 

Deep  in  the  pillows  of  boyhood  grew, 

Twenty-four  years  ago, 
Dreams  as  bright  as  a  May-dawn's  dew, 

Twenty-four  years  ago ; 
Dreams  of  glory  that  far  outshone 
Anything  yet  that  the  world  had  known, 
Crowns  that  fitted  our  brows  alone, 

Twenty-four  years  ago. 

Out  of  that  beautiful  world  we  came, 

Twenty  long  years  ago, 
With  a  steady  step  and  a  lofty  aim, 

Twenty  long  years  ago; 
And  never  again  did  we  see  the  flowers, 
Nor  hear  in  the  dim  Pierian  bowers 
The  whispers  of  hope  in  that  world  of  ours, 

Twenty  long  years  ago.     * 

We  find  life  now,  as  we  found  it  first, 

Twenty  long  years  ago, 
When,  birdlike,  out  of  the  nest  we  burst, 

Twenty  long  years  ago; 
Always  a  worm  in  the  heart  of  the  fruit, 
A  fly  in  the  flask — a  flaw  in  the  flute, — 
Some  discord  never  discerned  in  the  lute 

Twenty  long  years  ago. 

The  way  is  weary  that  leads  us  o'er 

Twenty  long  years  ago, 
To  the  dear  old  summers  that  come  no  more, 


The  Lute  of  Life  187 


Twenty  long  years  ago; 
But  the  far-off  future  beckons  and  beams, 
And  often  we  see  in  glimmers  and  gleams 
The  one  true  life  of  our  boyish  dreams, 

Twenty  long  years  ago. 


MY  GOOD  RIGHT  HAND 
(A  la  Riley) 

A  subjec'  fer  a  poem !  Well,  I've  got  her,  don't  fergit ; 
Howsomever,  hit's  a  secret  till  a  verse  er  two  is  writ, 
But  my  pencil  keeps  a-prancin'  down  the  paper  like 

e2  if, 

In  spite  of  all  my  cunnin',  it  hed  kind  o'  got  a  whiff 
Uv  the  inspiration  bilin'  up  agin  my  collar-band 
Ez  I'm  stakin'  off  a  triboot  to 
My 

Good 

Right 

Hand. 

Ther'  never  wuz  a  feller  hed  a  lover  ha'f  ez  sweet 
Ez  them  little  bones  an'  grissels  in  their  kiverin'  o' 

meat, 
Thet  fer  fifty  year  an'  better  hev  been  danglin'  like  a 

charm, 

Down  yander  at  the  bizness  termination  of  my  arm — 
An'  my  fingers  sort  o'  trimble,  fer  they  seem  to  under- 
stand 

Thet  they're  scribble-un  the  praises  uv 
My 

Good 

Right 

Hand. 

I  love  it,  fer  it  labors  oncomplainin'  ever'  day, 
Never  grumblin',  never  growlin',  never  dunnin'  me  fer 
pay; 


1 88  The  Lute  of  Life 

Allus  ready,  allus  willin',  fer  to  he'p  me  in  a  pinch, 
An'  a-workin'  like  the  dickens  wher'  the  other  fellers 

flinch ; 
So  ye  see  it  makes  me  giggle  jes'  a  thinkin'  how  I've 

planned 

An'  nearly  writ  a  poem  to 
My 

Good 

Right 

Hand. 

Some  time  when  ye're  in   Springfield,   an'   santerin' 

around 
The    monument    o'    Lincoln,    an'    the    other    haller'd 

ground, 
Jes'  drop  into  the  State-house,  wher'  they  keep  the 

flags,  an'  see 

The  one  I  ust  to  foller  in  the  year  o'  'Sixty-three, 
An'  see  the  old  staff  splintered  till  it  can't  no  longer 

stand, 

An'  rickolect  'twuz  riddled  in 
My 

Good 

Right 

Hand. 

I  know  a  little  woman  'at's  a-gittin'  middlin'  gray, 
Whose  testimony  I  kin  add  to  thet  o'  mine,  an'  say 
Thet  no  telegrafic  batt'ry  ever  give  her  sich  a  shock 
O'  pleasure  ez  she  hed  one  night,  'bout  nine  er  ten 

o'clock, 
When  the  war  wuz  fit  an'  finished  an'  peace  wuz  in 

the  land, 

An'  she  felt  ag'in  the  graspin'  uv 
My 

Good 

Right 

Hand. 


The  Lute  of  Life 189 

O  my  good  right  hand !  when  the  years  hev  hustled  by, 
An'  we're  shoveled  off  together  in  the  shadders,  you 

an'  I, 

We'll  stick  to  one  another  still,  jes'  like  a  pair  o'  twins, 
The  only  drawback  bein'  thet  you  suffer  fer  my  sins — 
An'  yit,  somehow,  I  fancy  when  before  the  Throne  I 

stand, 

My  heart  '11  feel  the  pressure  uv 
My 

Good 

Right 

Hand. 


THE  LADY  OF  MY  DREAM 

Just  for  a  dream's  sake  would  I  have  her  so, 
Just  for  a  dream's  span,  lying  half-reclined 
Against  the  dusk,  her  plenteous  hair  entwined 

With  milk-white  pearls  and  lilies  all  aglow; 

Just  for  a  dream's  sake,  only,  would  I  know 
The  full  perfection  languidly  outlined 
Beneath  the  wreathing  raiments  that  enwind 

Her  sumptuous  beauty  from  all  winds  that  blow. 

She's  but  the  chiseled  image  of  my  dream, 
The  breathing  marble  from  the  model  drawn 

Upon  my  vision  in  the  night's  deep  hush, 
When  Beauty's  self,  clad  in  the  moon's  thin  beam, 
Went  forth  to  cull  the  first  rose  of  the  dawn 
Amidst  her  garden  grasses,  warm  and  lush. 


THERE  IS  NO  REST 

"There  is  no  death,"  the  poet  sings, 
As  lofty  dreams  inspire  his  breast, — 

O  spirit  of  the  tuneful  strings, 
I  answer, — neither  is  there  rest! 


i£o The  Lute  of  Life 

There  is  no  rest!  the  mills  of  change 
Grind  on, — the  gods  are  at  the  wheels! 

The  same  fierce  impulse,  swift  and  strange, 
We  feel,  that  every  planet  feels. 

There  is  no  rest!  not  even  sleep 

Is  shorn  of  its  mobility, — 
The  red  floods  thro'  the  body  sweep 

Forever,  like  a  tided  sea. 

There  is  no  rest!  the  granite  grinds 
To  dust  within  its  marble  glooms; 

Decay's  pale  worm  incessant  winds 

Its  way  thro'  Fame's  emblazoned  tombs. 

There  is  no  rest!  e'en  Love  hath  wings 

That  wearilessly  fan  the  air 
In  his  leal-hearted  wanderings, 

So  fetterless,  so  free  from  care. 

There  is  no  rest!  the  feet  of  Pain 
Are  shod  with  motion, — Pleasure's  eyes 

Pale  faster  than  the  sun-kissed  rain 
Swung  arching  in  the  mid-May  skies. 

There  is  no  rest!  Religion  shakes 
Her  stainless  robes,  and  skyward  lifts 

Her  tremulous  white  palms,  and  takes 
Faith's  priceless  and  eternal  gifts. 

There  is  no  rest!  the  long  gray  caves 
Of  Death  are  rife  with  force  and  heat, 

Nor  Fancy  pauses  till  she  paves 
The  floors  of  Heaven  with  flying  feet. 

There  is  no  rest!  no  sure  repose 
For  souls  above  nor  souls  below, — 

Life's  tide  forever  ebbs  and  flows, 
And  man  must  either  come  or  go. 


The  Lute  of  Life  191 


And  so,  thro'  all  the  universe 

A  rhythmic  motion,  faint-expressed, 

Runs  onward  like  an  epic-verse, 
Voluminous — there  is  no  rest ! 


LAST  HOURS  OF  CHATTERTON 

My  dreams  are  almost  over, 
My  days  of  love  are  done, 

Dark  are  the  clouds  that  cover 
The  cold  cheek  of  the  sun ; 

Tho'  still  the  life-light  flashes 

-  Within  my  tired  eyes, 

My  hopes — they  are  but  ashes ! 
My  heart — see  where  it  lies ! 

Delight  no  longer  wooes  me, 

And  all  desire  is  vain ; 
Disaster  still  pursues  me 

Behind  the  hounds  of  pain ; 
My  blood  that  once  went  leaping 

In  riotous  unrest, 
Now,  chilled  with  care,  is  creeping1 

And  curdling  in  my  breast. 

Regret  itself  has  perished, 

And  not  one  passion  stirs 
The  ruddy  springs  that  nourished 

The  loves  of  other  years ; 
Dead,  too,  is  all  endeavor, 

And  little  'tis  I  care 
How  soon  the  Sisters  sever 

The  cords  that  hold  me  here. 

No  man  to  me  is  neighbor, 

I,  neighbor  unto  none — 
Each  tongue  is  like  a  sabre 

Adrip  with  murder  done ; 


192  _  The  Lute  of  Life 

The  artful  robs  the  artless, 

The  knave,  the  fool  —  what  then? 

The  grave  is  not  more  heartless 
Than  are  the  ways  of  men. 

ANOTHER  VIEW 

'Twere  pleasant,  that  in  flowery  June, 
When  birds  send  up  a  cheerful  tune, 

And  groves  a  joyous  sound, 
The  sexton's  hand,  my  grave  to  make, 
The  rich  green  mountain  turf  should  break. 

—  BRYANT'S 


Not  so  with  me!     I  dare  not  think 

Of  death  when  lovely  June 
Lies  on  the  lilac  and  the  pink, 
And  down  the  river's  dewy  brink 

The  wild-birds  pipe  in  tune; 
Nay!  nay!    I  could  not  will  to  die, 
What  time  the  flower-clad  earth  draws  nigh 

The  summer's  golden  noon,  — 
'Twere  double  death  to  pass  away 
When  Nature  holds  her  holiday. 

When  apple-boughs  are  warm  with  bloom, 

And  down  the  orchard's  rows 
The  clover  pours  its  faint  perfume, 
'Twere  sacrilege  to  wish  the  tomb 

Might  o'er  one's  ashes  close; 
With  sun  and  heat  life  grows  intense, 
And  Spirit  sips  the  cups  of  Sense, 

Forgetful  of  its  woes  ; 
While  the  red  breakers  of  the  blood 
Roll  onward  in  a  fervent  flood. 

Dear  Poet!  if  I've  read  aright, 

Death  favored  thy  desire 
And  felled  thee  when  the  flowers  were  bright 


The  Lute  of  Life  193 

On  all  the  fields  of  June,  and  white 

The  blossoms  on  the  briar; 
When  from  the  turf  and  from  the  tree 
The  birds  sent  up  their  melody 

Like  some  impassioned  choir; 
And  yet,  it  seems,  from  summer's  glow 
A  bard  should  be  the  last  to  go. 

Give  me  to  die  when  snow  and  sleet 

Lie  thick  upon  the  flowers, — 
When  night-winds  at  the  gables  beat, 
And  up  the  city's  frozen  street 

The  friendless  outcast  cowers; 
Hide  me  away  from  scenes  like  these, 
Omnipotence !  if  so  it  please 

To  exercise  Thy  powers; — 
Spare  not!  but  let  December  rave, 
And  shower  his  lances  on  my  grave. 

Life  is  least  worth  when  skies  are  dull, 

And  on  the  icy  air 

No  singing  bird  comes  forth  to  lull 
The  troubled  heart, — no  beautiful 

Wild  flower  is  anywhere; 
Less  grief  it  were  to  slip  the  chains 
Of  living,  and  escape  its  pains, 

When  all  is  bleak  and  bare; — 
And  so  from  earth  I  fain  would  fly 
When  winter  hurtles  through  the  sky. 


SEVERED  FRIENDSHIP 

Shall  we  never  meet  again? 

Is  it  fated  that  we  twain 

Shall  know  no  more  the  clasping 
Of   each  other's   arms — the  grasping 

Of  each  other's  hands,   and  tingling 

Of  the   old-time's   intermingling? 

13 


194  The  Lute  of  Life 


Is  it  written — is  it  known, 

In  the  doom-book  at  the  Throne, 

That  you  and   I,   forever, 

Shall  never,  never,  never, 
Be  united — be  twin-hearted, 
As  in  days  long  since  departed? 

May  we  never  backward  creep 
Thro'  the  shadows  vague  and  deep, 
To  the  melancholy  borders 
Of  our  strifes  and   our  disorders, 
And  restore  the  fetters  golden 
Of  the  happy  days  and  olden? 

Is  it  fated  that  we  twain 

Must  forevermore  remain 
Asunder,  but  still  yearning 
For  a  love  that's  unreturning — 

For  a  friendship  rashly  riven, 

In  the  sight  of  Earth  and  Heaven? 


A  DREAM  ABOUT  SONNETS 

O  silver-throated  throng !    Hither  ye  fly, 
Down-singing  on  your  happy  pilgrimage 
From  Petrarch's  groves  and  Dante's  golden  cage, 

Far-hidden  in  the  vales  of  Tuscany! 

Beloved  of  every  bard,  ye  charmed  the  eye 
Of  Spenser's  muse,  and  even  did  engage 
The  soul  of  Shakespeare,  on  whose  ample  page 

Ye  perched  and  piped  in  strains  that  never  die. 

To  you  did  Milton  lend  a  listening  ear, 
Ye  soothed  old  Cowper  in  his  latter  days, 

And  mellowed  the  melodious  atmosphere 

'Round  Rydal  Mount,  and,  in  the  lone  retreats 

Where  bleeding  Genius  dropped  his  budding  bays, 
Poured  out  your  crushed  hearts  at  the  bed  of  Keats. 


The  Lute  of  Life  195 

A  NATIONAL  BIRTHDAY  BALLAD 
(READ  AT  WATSON,  ILI,.,  JULY  4,  1882) 

Roll  out  the  cannon,  boys,  run  up  the  flag, 
Scream,  ye  bold  eagles,  on  mountain  and  crag, 
Ye  mariners  shout  in  your  ships  on  the  sea, 
Columbia  has  conquered,  the  Nation  is  free! 
There  is  light  in  the  cloud,  there  is  peace  on  the  shore, 
And  the  death-dealing  musket  hangs  dumb  o'er  the 

door; 

The  people  that  groaned  under  burdens  that  grew, 
The  tyrant  that  tortured,  the  savage  that  slew, 
The  prince  and  the  peasant,  who  wrangled  of  old, 
The  good  and  the  evil,  the  weak  and  the  bold, — 
All,  all  have  gone  down  thro'  the  portals  of  fate, 
And  liberty's  lions  keep  watch  at  the  gate. 

O  children !  the  blood  of  your  forefathers  poured 
In  floods  from  the  track  of  the  foreigners'  sword, 
And  their  death-shrieks  of  valor  still  echo  and  ring 
With  a  shout  for  their  country,  a  curse  for  the  king; 
They  died,  and  their  dust  blossoms  up  from  the  mold, 
And  their  guerdons  of  glory  gleam  brighter  than  gold ; 
Like  the  odor  of  flowers  when  the  summer  is  gone, 
The  bloom  falls  away,  but  the  fragrance  lives  on ; 
O  children !  for  them  lift  your  voices  on  high 
With  paeans  of  praise  on  each  Fourth  of  July, — 
And  listen!  as  ye  gather  strength  and  grow  great, 
Keep  the  lions  of  liberty  close  to  the  gate. 

Ye  fathers,  who  fell  upon  Lexington  green, 
Ye  mothers,  whose  equals  the  world  has  not  seen, 
We  hail  you,  salute  you,  with  speech  and  with  song, 
As  the  ages  of  progress  glide  swiftly  along; 
From  shadowy  hillside  and  populous  plain 
We  swell  the  bold  anthems  of  freedom  again, 
And  the  voice  of  this  people  forever  shall  ring, 
"Up,  up,  with  the  Union,  and  down  with  the  king!" 
From  Plymouth's  bald  rock  to  the  bright  golden  strand 


196  The  Lute  of  Life 

The  temples  of  truth  and  of  justice  shall  stand, 
And  rainbows  of  promise  shall  span  every  State, 
While  the  lions  of  liberty  watch  at  the  gate. 

Ye  brothers,  who  stand  like  a  stairway  of  stars, 
In  the  fortress  of  freedom,  we  're  proud  of  your  scars ; 
The  despot  is  down,  and  the  bondman  is  free, 
And  a  new  life  is  dawning  o'er  land  and  o'er  sea ; 
Clasp  hands  round  the  flag,  round  its  folds  reunite, 
There 's  love  in  the  emblem,  there 's  hope  in  its  might ; 
Shout  aloud!  for  the  night  of  oppression  is  past, 
And  sunbursts  of  glory  break  out  of  the  blast ; 
The  owl  of  despair  has  deserted  his  crag, 
And  the  eagle  of  joy  perches  high  on  the  flag, — 
Perches  high,  shrieks  aloft,  in  his  triumph  elate, — 
And  the  lions  of  liberty  watch  at  the  gate. 

Wives,  sisters,  and  sweethearts,  to  you  it  is  given 
To  cheer  the  torn  ranks  if  the  cohorts  are  riven ; 
Ye  vanguards  of  mercy,  white  scouts  from  the  skies, 
We  dream  in  your  lovelight,  we  drink  to  your  eyes ; 
We  praise  you  with  wit  and  we  pledge  you  with  wine, 
And  garlands  of  love  round  your  temples  we  twine; 
The  roar  of  the  conflict  is  sweet  to  our  ears 
When  beauty  looks  on  thro'  an  iris  of  tears, 
And  the  foe  melts  away  like  a  mist  in  the  strife 
When  the  warrior  remembers  his  sweetheart  or  wife ; 
Then  hail  to  you,  joy  to  you,  early  and  late, 
While  liberty's  lions  keep  watch  at  the  gate. 

And  thou,  O  Columbia!  of  nations  last  born, 
Bright  planet  of  freedom  that  heralds  the  morn, 
Thy  birth-hymn  is  heard  in  the  songs  of  the  spheres, 
Thy  records  are  written  with  sabres  and  spears; 
The  stripes  on  thy  standard  are  legends  of  pain, 
And  its  stars  are  the  symbols  of  hope  for  the  slain; 
No  more  at  the  feet  of  foul  empires  you  plead, 
At  the  beck  of  thy  finger  all  kingdoms  take  heed, 
And  the  roar  of  thy  mandates,  on  land  and  on  sea, 


The  Lute  of  Life  197 


Bears  hope  to  the  bondmen  and  strength  to  the  free ; — 
Then  onward,  press  onward,  O  proud  Ship  of  State, 
While  liberty's  lions  keep  watch  at  the  gate! 


The  life  that  is,  and  the  life  that  was,  and  the  life  that 

is  to  be, 

One  is  a  river,  and  one  is  a  lake,  and  one  is  a  bound- 
less sea; 
And  over  all  is  a  laughing  sky ;  and  ever  our  hearts 

respond 
To  the  sweet,  invisible  loves  that  lie  in  the  sparkling 

blue  beyond ; 
And  to  and  fro  the  wild  winds  blow  in  the  starshine 

and  the  sun, 
And  the  thoughts  of  to-day  and  yesterday  are  merely 

the  thoughts  of  one. 
The  words  we  spake,  and  the  words  we  speak,  and 

those  we  yet  shall  say, 
Are  linked  together,  in  tricksy  tether,  like  children 

at  their  play. 
The  deeds  we  do,  and  the  deeds  we  did,  and  those  that 

wait  undone, 
Are  much  the  same  in  look  and  name,  and  trip  together 

as  one; 
The  sins  of  to-day  and  yesterday  and  to-morrow's 

sins  are  such 
We  smile  to  see  the  family  resemble  each  other  so 

much. 
And  nothing  under  the  sun  is  new ;  and  so  the  cycles 

pass 
Before  the  marveling  mind  of  man  like  shadows  over 

glass : — 
But  under  it  all,  and  over  it  all,  and  the  finest  part 

thereof, 

Is  the  sweet  immutable  sovereign  soul  of  love — 
love — love. 


198  The  Lute  of  Life 


IN  PEACEFUL  DAYS 

[Read  before  a  camp-fire  of  the  Ransom  Post,  G.  A.  R., 
at  Mason,  III.] 

Happy  the  day!  but  happier  far  the  land, 

Unclouded  by  the  battle's  fiery  breath  ; 
Happy  the  day,  when  ancient  foemen  stand 

Around  one  camp-fire  and  one  flag  beneath ; 
When  grasses  spring  in  trenches  of  the  slain, 
And  pathless  meadows  glow  with  golden  grain, 
And  time  has  kissed  away  each  crimson  stain, 
And  tender  mem'ries  drape  the  fields  of  death. 

Happy  the  day,  when,  under  mild-eyed  stars, 
The  loit'ring  maiden  and  the  loyal  swain 
No  longer  catch  the  clamorous  peal  of  wars 

Upblown  from  harvest-lands  of  blood  and  pain ; 
Happy  the  day,  when  strife  and  discord  cease, 
When  from  the  war-clouds  float  the  doves  of  peace, 
And  every  patriot  from  his  door-step  sees 
Serener  joys  around  his  cottage  reign. 

Happy  the  day,  when  widows'  cries  are  stilled, 

And  sabers  into  pruning-hooks  are  made ; 
Happy  the  day,  with  autumn  fruitage  filled, 

When  marts  are  tingling  to  the  tramp  of  trade ; 
When  shining  plows  write  hymnals  in  the  sod, 
And  timely  showers  caress  the  crumbling  clod, 
And  franchised  toilers  carol  as  they  plod 
Among  the  hills  and  thro'  the  sun-lit  glade. 

Happy  the  day,  when  freemen's  feet  shall  tread, 

With  equal  pace,  the  slipp'ry  slopes  of  time ; 
Happy  the  day,  when  all  mankind  are  led 

To  brand  with  infamy  the  brows  of  crime ; 
When  reeking  Tyranny  has  burned  his  whips, 
And  billows  blossom  with  the  sails  of  ships, 
And  all  the  world,  released  from  its  eclipse, 
Rolls  onward  like  a  poet's  mellow  rhyme. 


The  Lute  of  Life  199 


Happy  the  day,  when  sturdy  axes  ring 

Reluctant  anthems  from  the  mountain-pine — 
When  hammers  clash,  and  shining  spindles  sing 

The  symphonies  of  industry  divine ; 
When  temples  gleam,  and  marble  cities  rise, 
And  glistening  turrets  fret  the  vaulted  skies, 
And  kings  grow  tremulous,  and  men  grow  wise, 
And  love  and  valor  round  our  altars  twine. 

Happy  the  day,  when  stainless  statesmen  stand 

And  trance  the  list'ning  senates  with  their  speech  ; 
When  purer  laws  enlace  the  laughing  land, 

And  monarchs  tremble  at  the  truths  we  teach ; 
Happy  the  day,  when  from  the  warrior's  brow 
Love  takes  with  tender  hand  the  laurel-bough, 
And  crowns  her  prince  that  plods  behind  the  plow, 
And  nations  cling  like  brothers,  each  to  each. 

TO  WILLIAM  VAIL 

Dear  Bard  of  Summit!  can  it  be 
The  Shadow  hath  encompassed  thee — 
That  on  thy  singing  lips  descend 
The  dews  of  death,  my  gentle  friend? 

We  bow  to  the  divine  behest 
That  whatsoever  is,  is  best, — 

Yet  under  all  our  patience  lies 

A  pain  that  we  can  not  disguise. 

The  frosts  of  time  that  fringed  thy  face 
Touched  not  the  spirit's  tender  grace, 
And  thro'  each  stress  of  storm  and  shine 
The  chasteness  of  the  child  was  thine. 

If  e'er  thou  hadst  a  dream  of  fame 
Whose  high  fulfillment  never  came, 

What  matters  it?  no  heart  should  ache 

O'er  bubbles  that  so  lightly  break. 


200  The  Lute  of  Life 

If  but  the  love  of  song  endure 
When  youth  is  gone,  the  gift  is  sure, — 
And  thus,  by  that  unfailing  sign, 
Old  friend,  we  know  the  gift  was  thine. 

Had  I,  to-day,  the  power  to  pierce 

Beyond  the  curtained  universe, 
I  fain  would  see  the  fadeless  bough 
That  Love  hath  twined  about  thy  brow. 

In  vain  my  fancy's  pinions  beat 
The  fortress-walls  of  thy  retreat, 
And  yet  it  soothes  my  soul  to  see 
And  feel  that  all  is  well  with  thee. 

Hail  and  good-night!  but  not  good-by, — 
When  we  shall  part,  Old  Time  and  I, 
Pray  wander  down  some  path  and  wait 
To  press  my  warm  palm  at  the  gate. 


AT  BAY 

Dagger,  what  lies  beyond  thy  lethal  tip? 
Darkness  and  solitude,  or  some  divine, 
Saint-thronged  and  sun-crowned  shore?    O  weapon 
mine, 

Speak  to  my  spirit  swiftly,  for  my  grip 

Tightens  upon  thee,  and  my  sin-scorched  lip 
Quivers  with  agony, — my  thoughts  malign 
Leap  wildly  from  their  desecrated  shrine, 

Like  some  mad  steed  beneath  his  master's  whip. 

One  moment  more  of  life,  O  God,  and  then 
The  voiceless  vastitudes — the  shifting  hell 

Of  night  eternal,  and  unpillared  space, — 
One  moment,  and  my  soul  shall  be  as  when 

It  floated,  formless,  in  the  blind  embrace 
Of  Time's  pre-vital  mysteries. — Farewell! 


The  Lute  of  Life  201 


THE  LONG  JOURNEY  HOME 

He  claimed  that  he  came  from  Missouri.    I  smiled  in 

the  old  man's  face, 
And  said,  "Farther  east,  my  brother,  I  think  is  your 

native  place." 
At  which  he  looked  up  and  retorted  in  terms  both 

pointed  and  plain, 
"Well,  yes,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  my  parents  moved 

there  from  Maine." 
"And  where  was  your  grandfather  from,  if  that  I  be 

free  to  inquire?" 
"From  England,  old  England,"  said  he. — "And  where 

was  the  home  of  his  sire?" 
"He  came  into  Britain  through  France,  long  since, 

from  a  country  afar, 
From  a  city  whose  name  I  remember  of  hearing  was 

Kandahar — 
Came  with  his  father,  who  journeyed  from  Egypt,  'tis 

said,  when  a  child, 
Along  with  his  great-grandsire  from  the  Asian  hills." 

I  smiled, 
"And  so  you  have  traveled  and  traveled  for  hundreds 

of  years,"  I  said ; 
"You've  crossed  over  continents,  oceans,  and  gone 

where  the  sun  has  led, — 
And  can  you  not  find  what  you  seek?"     He  wearily 

turned  to  the  west, 
And  answered,  "No,  never !  my  brother, — there's  only 

one  Place  of  Rest." 


THE  CRIME 

Here  lived  the  slayer,  and  there  the  slain, 

With  barely  an  acre  of  ground  between ; 
'T  was  night !  they  stood  in  the  wind  and  rain, 
And  quarrelled, — next  morning  a  ghastly  stain 
Of  blood  on  the  meadow-grass  was  seen. 


202  The  Lute  of  Life 


And  one  was  dead,  and  one  had  fled, 

And  all  night  long  the  mourners  wept; 
The  widow  wailed  in  the  dusk  by  the  dead, 
And  the  wife  of  the  slayer  shook  with  dread, 
And  the  north-wind  over  the  chimney  swept. 

And  these  were  farmers,  and  these  were  friends,- 

Friends,  I  say,  till  that  night  in  the  fall ; 
Too  proud  was  the  one  to  make  amends 
For  a  foolish  wrong,  and  the  bloody  ends 
Of  passion  followed,  with  grief  and  gall. 

Then  a  gibbet  loomed  in  the  dusky  sky, 

And  a  blue-eyed  orphan  pierced  the  night 
With  desolate  sobs,  and  a  mother's  cry 
Outrang  the  blast,  as  it  whistled  by 
In  its  wild,  unbridled  flight. 

They  laid  the  slayer  not  far  from  the  slain, 
In  the  village  churchyard  under  the  hill ; 
And  the  meadows  of  death  were  dearth  of  grain, 
And  the  winds  blew  over  the  unplowed  plain, 
For  the  hands  of  the  husbandmen  were  still. 


I  passed  by  the  crumbling  huts  to-day, 

And  birds  were  out,  and  the  land  was  green ; 
Two  women,  withered  and  bent  and  gray, 
Sat,  each  in  the  shade  of  her  own  doorway, 
And  children  played  on  the  ground  between. 


FOR  AN  ALBUM 

We  shall  meet,  we  shall  greet, 
Where  the  bright  lights  quiver 

Over  yonder,  on  the  heights 
Of  the  interflowing  river, — 

Over  yonder  where  the  moon 
With  the  shepherd-boy  dallies, 


The  Lute  of  Life  203 


And  the  goat-foot  Pan 

Goes  piping  down  the  valleys, — 
We  shall  meet,  we  shall  greet, 

Where  the  warm  sky  showers 
The  pearls  of  the  planets 

On  the  fountains  and  the  flowers, — 
Where  the  summer  lies  asleep 

On  the  wings  of  the  swallows, 
And  the  nightingale  sings 

In  the  dream-haunted  hollows ; 
We  shall  meet,  over  there, 

On  the  sunny  hills  seven, 
In  the  Rome  of  the  soul, 

In  the  Italy  of  Heaven. 


A  SEA-WEED 

A  seaman's  bride  knelt  low  beside  the  sea, 
Her  hands  uplifted  in  dumb  agony. 

The  rack  drave  in  against  the  ragged  coast, 
And  on  the  downs  the  raging  ocean  tossed. 

"Give  back,"  she  cried,  "O  heaven,  give  back  to 

me, 
One  ship,  of  all  the  ships  that  sail  the  sea!" 

A  hurrying  sea-gull  and  a  hungry  shark 

Made  answer, — and  the  dark  grew  doubly  dark. 

That  night  a  sailor  pale  with  outstretched  hand 
Knelt  on  the  deck  and  prayed  for  grace  to  land. 

"Almighty  God !  let  me  but  clasp  once  more, 
Ere  death,  my  waiting  one,  on  yonder  shore," 

He  said, — and  fell  upon  the  shattered  deck, 
A  lifeless  mass  amidst  a  hopeless  wreck. 


204  The  Lute  of  Life 

The  boiling  waters  murmured  a  reply, 
As  the  last  bolt  came  rushing  down  the  sky. 

And  o'er  the  sunken  ship  the  sea-gulls  flew, 
And  on  the  crags  the  night-winds  blew  and  blew. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  BOHEMIANS 

Goldsmith!  what  other  name  in  modern  song 

Lies  on  the  lips  so  lovingly  and  long 

As  his,  the  lowly  piper  of  Lissoy, 

Who  left  to  man  what  time  can  ne'er  destroy, — 

Whose  genius  lifted,  in  an  age  of  hate, 

The  muse  of  Britain  from  its  low  estate, 

And  from  the  grime  of  London  brought  to  view 

Such  grace  of  song  as  England  never  knew. 

Of  all  unlucky  bards,  Goldsmith  was  first, 

Mothered  by  Want  and  by  Misfortune  nursed — 

A  child  of  folly  from  the  cradle  cast 

Upon  the  world,  to  face  its  every  blast ; 

Infirm  of  will,  untutored  to  deceive, 

A  heart  made  keen  to  pity  and  relieve — 

A  self -forgetful  nature,  quick  to  know 

A  wretch's  need,  and  first  to  share  his  woe; 

A  gentle  spirit,  wayward  as  the  wind, 

Fluting  for  bread,  and  studying  mankind, — 

By  choice  a  rover,  free  and  easy  still, 

No  friends  to  fret  him,  and  no  purse  to  fill ; — 

At  home  in  every  land,  on  every  sea, 

Where  Mirth  and  Wine  and  Fellowship  could  be; 

His  soul  behind  no  curtained  casement  stood, 

But  loved  the  pulse  and  glow  of  brotherhood, 

And  prince  and  pauper  shared  alike  the  strong 

Fraternal  fervor  of  his  deathless  song. 

Amidst  the  gloom  of  Grub  Street  see  him  creep, 

Hungry,  and  hollow-eyed  from  want  of  sleep, 

Alone  indulging  a  sublime  despair 

Lest  Death,  in  passing,  may  not  find  him  there. 


The  Lute  of  Life 205 

Crushed  with  the  weight  of  follies  overpast, 
In  London's  lap  he  throws  himself  at  last, 
Bruised  with  distrust  and  battered  with  disdain, 
A  soul  who  never  gave  the  world  a  pain. 

GRUB  STREET,  LONDON,  1739 

O  dingy  street!  where  Genius  lit, 
Half-clad,  her  torch — where  Johnson's  wit 
Plowed  through  the  pretense  of  his  time, — 
Where  Goldsmith  built  the  lofty  rhyme, 
And  Savage  died,  and  Smollett  writ. 

Where  Garrick,  born  to  charm  the  pit, 
First  made  the  royal  buskins  fit, 

And  trod  the  tragic  stage  sublime, — 
O  dingy  street ! 

A  dreary  street!  no  longer  flit 

Starved  authors  in  and  out  of  it; 
They  drudge  no  more  in  gloom  and  grime, 
In  dens  of  death,  in  caves  of  crime, 

To  kinder  fates  they  now  submit, 
O  dingy  street ! 

THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  PEN 

O  the  people  of  the  pen, 

The  people  of  the  pen — 
The  brightest  of  our  women, 

And  the  bravest  of  our  men ! 
On  the  picket-lines  of  progress 

They  are  keeping  watch  and  ward, 
Where  the  reaper  swings  the  sickle 

And  the  soldier  wields  the  sword; 
Their  snowy  scrolls  are  fluttering, 

Like  doves,  around  the  globe — 
They  're  folding  all  the  lands  of  God 


206  The  Lute  of  Life 


Within  one  starry  robe; 
On  all  the  bleak  and  sunless  hills 

They  build  the  beacon-fires, 
And  set  the  danger-signals  out 

On  all  the  tallest  spires; 
The  fiery-footed  coursers 

Of  the  lightning  they  have  caught, 
And  made  them  message-bearers 

In  the  parliament  of  thought; 
They  're  a  mighty  army  moving, 

And  they  muster  thousands  ten, 
And  pull  the  world  behind  them, — 

The  people  of  the  pen. 

O  the  people  of  the  pen, 

The  people  of  the  pen ! 
Wherever  human  foot  has  trod 

Some  strolling  scribe  has  been; 
Ye  '11  find  them  in  the  frigid  North, 

Beyond  the  lone  "Jeannette>" — 
In  the  desert  lands  of  Siber, 

Where  the  cheerless  exiles  fret; 
Ye  '11  find  them  on  the  Congo, 

Ye  '11  meet  them  on  the  Nile, 
Ye  '11  hear  them  in  the  jungle 

Of  the  snake  and  crocodile ; 
They  slumber  with  the  Bedouin, 

They  sip  the  sunny  wine 
Upon  the  Guadalquiver 

And  along  the  banks  of  Rhine ; 
The  Argonauts  of  every  clime, 

They  wander  far  and  free, 
They  scale  the  wildest  mountain 

And  they  sail  the  widest  sea; 
The  pilgrims  of  Bohemia, 

There 's  naught  escapes  their  ken, — 
The  painters  of  the  universe, 

The  people  of  the  pen. 
O  the  people  of  the  pen, 


The  Lute  of  Life  207 

The  people  of  the  pen ! 
They  're  toiling  in  the  palace, 

And  the  poor  man's  den ; 
They  tell  us  of  the  glory 

Of  the  times  long  past, 
Of  the  splendors  of  antiquity 

Too  marvelous  to  last; 
In  the  looms  of  their  genius 

They  are  weaving,  day  and  night, 
The  visions  of  the  dreamers 

Into  pages  black  and  white ; 
Into  golden  blocks  of  wisdom 

They  are  chiseling  their  hearts, 
And  we  buy  their  very  life-blood 

For  a  penny  in  the  marts; 
They  are  scholars  ripe  and  ready, 

They  are  poets  blithe  and  young, 
Whose  happy  fancies  tinkle 

Into  music  on  the  tongue; 
They  carol  like  the  mock-bird, 

They  twitter  like  the  wren, 
And  the  world  is  in  the  fingers 

Of  the  people  of  the  pen. 


MURMURS  OF  MARCH 
(A  SILHOUETTE) 

Patches  of  snow,  like  scattered  flocks,  that  lie 
Along  the  damp  hill's  sunny  southern  side ; 
Gray  glens,  lone  glades,  and  drowsy  streams  that 
glide, 

With  sound  as  lulling  as  a  seraph's  sigh, 

Beneath  the  craggy  cliffs  that  stretch  on  high 
Their  wreathen  fingers,  as  a  new-made  bride 
Uplifts  her  jeweled  hands  with  comely  pride 

To  catch  some  friendly  guest's  admiring  eye. 


208  The  Lute  of  Life 


Dank  vagues  of  mold'ring  leaves — the  skeletons 
Of  vanished  splendor — into  shadow  shrink, 

Like  disenchanted  belles,  beneath  the  glow 

Of  blither  beauty,  born  of  brighter  suns ; 
Ah,  well-a-day !  reluctantly  we  think 

On  last  year's  blight  when  this  year's  roses  blow. 


THE  COUNTRY  BOY  AT  SCHOOL 

How  kin  a  feller  study  a-tall, 

Er  cipher  a  single  bit, 
An'  that  little  white  ca'f  shet  up  in  a  stall 

An'  nobody  carin'  fer  it? 
An'  mother  a-layin'  sick  in  her  bed, 

An'  the  hired-girl  fergittin' 
To  water  ol'  Bill  in  the  stable-shed, 

Er  feed  my  kitten. 

Now  what's  the  use  uv  'rithmetic 

Er  spellin',  I  'd  like  ter  know, 
When  Banta  can't  git  nothin'  to  pick 

A-scratchin'  there  in  the  snow? 
Some  fellers  'at  go  to  school  don't  keer 

Fer  dogs  an'  things  like  I  do, — 
Plague-gone !    I  wish  I  'uz  away  f rum  here, 

At  home  with  Fido. 

"Jes'  go  to  school  ever'  day  you  can, 

An'  study  yer  best,"  says  Paw, 
"An'  'fore  yuh  know  it  yuh  '11  be  a  man, 

An'  ready  fer  readin'  law" : — 
Now  think  o'  that !  an'  the  bresh-piles  thick 

Ez  turnip-tops  in  the  holler, 
An'  rabbits  skippin'  along  the  crick, 

An'  I  can't  foller. 

Eddication  is  good  enough, 
I  reckon,  but  Jemi-nee! 


The  Lute  of  Life  209 

A-gittin'  the  thing  is  purty  tough          * 

Fer  a  boy  'ats  built  like  me;- — 
I  'd  ruther  hev  that  ol'  shotgun 

O'  Jim's,  with  its  wooden  rammer, 
Than  the  biggest  prize  't-wuz  ever  won 

Studyin'  grammer. 

When  re-cess  comes  I  'm  go'n'  to  say 

Jes'  nothin'  a-tall,  an'  yit 
I  '11  straddle  that  fence  an'  scoot  away 

Ez  fast  ez  I  kin  git; 
So  fare-ye-well  ol'  jografee, 

An'  fare-ye-well  ol'  spellin'; — 
What 's  to  become  uv  a  boy  like  me, 

There  ain't  no  tellin'. 

(Exit) 

ILLINOIS 

I  sing  not  of  the  summer  lands 
That  lie  beyond  the  rolling  seas — 
Nor  of  the  famed  Hesperides, 

Nor  any  tropic  isles  or  strands. 

I  sing  a  land  of  peace  and  light, 
Of  labor,  love,  and  liberty — 
A  land  wherein  the  prophets  see 

The  dawn  of  progress  infinite. 

No  dreaming  poet  ever  drew 
Upon  the  tablet  of  his  thought 
A  land  with  fairer  promise  fraught, 

Than  this  that  opens  on  my  view. 

The  maiden  empire  of  the  West, 

Gold-sheened,  gold-sandaled,  and  gold- 
crowned, 
Her  brows  with  yellow  harvests  bound, 

Her  ample  bosom  blossom-drest. 


210  The  Lute  of  Life 


Here  rhythmic  rivers  flash  and  flow 
Thrc/  meadows  measureless,  and  here, 
On  banks  of  roses,  cities  rear 

Their  temples  in  the  sunset's  glow. 

Here  birds  of  every  tongue  and  tinge 
Fly  up  and  down  the  laughing  lands, 
From  Michigan's  surf-whitened  sands 

To  where  Ohio's  floods  infringe. 

The  skies  of  Italy  are  ours, 

And  ours  the  Lydian  airs  that  blow 
So  lightly,  lullingly,  and  low, 

At  night-tide,  o'er  the  sleeping  flowers. 

No  ghostly  ruins  fret  the  wind, 

No  shattered  shrines,  no  toppling  towers, 
But,  ah !  this  peaceful  realm  embowers 

The  wealth  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind. 

Nor  is  the  soul  of  romance  flown, 
For  here  the  poet's  eye  can  trace 
The  vestige  of  a  vanished  race 

In  field  and  forest,  stream  and  stone. 

And  here  a  grander  Rome  will  rise, 
A  Rome  without  a  slave  or  king, 
Round  which  a  nobler  race  will  spring, 

With  patriotic  souls  and  wise; — 

A  free-born  people,  proud  and  great, 
With  heart  and  hand  to  do  and  dare, — 
With  strength  to  fashion  firm  and  fair 

The  fabric  of  the  growing  State. 

And  Greece,  beneath  these  western  skies, 
Will  leap  to  life  again,  and  breathe 
Her  spirit  into  stone,  and  wreathe 

The  land  with  deathless  melodies. 


The  Lute  of  Life  211 


I  trow  no  fancy  can  forecast 
The  fame,  the  splendor,  yet  to  be 
Unscrolled  before  the  world,  when  we 

Are  drawn  into  the  dreamless  past. 


THE  POET 

The  Poet's  portion  of  the  earth 

Outrings  the  farthest  rim 
That  girds  the  universe;  by  birth 

The  world  belongs  to  him; 
His  home  is  neither  here  nor  there, 

He  scorns  all  bands  and  bars, 
And  round  his  fancy's  feet  can  wear 

The  warm  dust  of  the  stars. 

He  hedges  all  the  lanes  of  life 

With  love,  where'er  he  goes; 
He  stills  with  song  the  breath  of  strife 

And  brings  the  heart  repose; 
To  him  is  nothing  commonplace, — 

The  meekest  flowers  that  nod 
Beside  the  way  wear  on  their  face 

The  finger-prints  of  God. 

To  him  is  neither  rich  nor  poor, — 

With  equal  zest  he  sings 
Beside  the  cotter's  humble  door 

And  in  the  hall  of  kings; 
To  him  all  nature  is  a  scroll 

Of  music. — Earth  and  sky 
Are  but  the  keys  from  which  his  soul 

Strikes  endless  Jmrmony. 

When  all  the  world  is  dark  with  doubt, 
And  clouds  conceal  the  day — 

When  all  the  lamps  of  hope  are  out, 
Some  poet  leads  the  way; — 


212  The  Lute  of  Life 


Some  poet,  like  a  prophet  old, 
With  love  divine  possessed, 

Upleads  us  to  the  gates  of  gold 
And  whispers  us  to  rest. 


IN  SUMMER  WOODS 

How  sweet  amidst  the  melancholy  hills 

To  lie,  a  lazy  dreamer,  in  the  lap 

Of  flush  midsummer,  drowsy  with  the  lull 

Of  lapping  waters  and  light  winds  that  pipe 

In  murmurous  monotones  along  the  dim, 

Sun-litten  arcades  of  the  spectral  woods, — 

To  hear,  remotely,  in  the  lonesome  lands, 

The  drony  resonance  of  dreamy  bells, 

Where,   'mid   cool   shadows,   lurk  the   browsing 

herds, 

In  dimpled  hollows,  soft  with  summer  sward — 
To  list  the  sullen  rasps  of  insect  wings, 
And,  in  a  silken  indolence  of  soul, 
To  note  the  bluster  of  the  tippling  bee, 
Home-reeling  from  the  pillaged  palaces 
Of  Flora's  shining  empire. 

Every  tuft 

Is  populous  with  panting  life  and  toil — 
Each  tree  is  tremulous  with  melody, 
Each  dainty  leaf,  each  dewy  blade  of  grass, 
Stirs  into  music  at  the  gentlest  touch 
Of  every  passing  wind. 

Ye  who  would  hear 

The  primal  symphonies  by  Adam  heard 
Amid  the  velvet  vales  of  Paradise, 
Go  down,  go  down,  to  the  embowering  woods, — 
Go  down  into  the  pulsing,  summer  woods, — 
Forgetful  and  forgotten  of  the  world, 
And  in  a  rosy  rhapsody  of  rest 
Throw  wide  the  spirit's  portals  to  the  fresh, 
Out-flowing  voices  of  the  universe, — 


The  Lute  of  Life  213 

The  voices  of  the  everlasting  hills, 
The  voices  of  the  rivers  and  the  rocks, 
The  rivulets,  the  rushes,  and  the  reeds, 
And  all  the  wizard-rhythm  of  the  shades. 

Let  the  light  spirit,  loosened  from  the  thrall 
Of  every-day  distraction,  wander  free, 
And  quaff  the  nectar  of  a  nobler  hope, 
The  sweeter  incense  of  a  higher  sphere, 
And,  on  the  star-crowned  summits  of  the  mind, 
Model  ambitions  of  sublimer  mold. 


SONG  OF  THE  SKEPTIC 

When  from  the  North  the  long,  cold  night 
Slides  down  the  snowy,  moonless  air, 
How  sweet  to  sit  and  smoke  and  stare, 

And  muse  upon  the  world,  and  write. 

To  study  mankind  'twixt  our  toes, 
Through  wreaths  of  aromatic  smoke, 
And  deem  the  life  we  live  a  joke, 

No  matter  how  it  comes  or  goes. 

To  dream  that  grief  is  but  a  jest, 
To  fancy  joy  is  but  a  dream — 
To  feel  that  what  we  see  or  seem 

Must  be  forever  for  the  best. 

If  beggars  cry,  why,  let  them  cry — < 
The  world  is  not  the  work  of  ours; — 
Who  made  the  sunshine,  makes  the  showers ; 

Who  made  the  liar,  makes  the  lie. 

To  some,  perchance,  this  seemeth  strange, 
But  they  who  doubt  it  must  deny 
The  wisdom  or  the  power  on  high 

That  shapes  the  very  laws  of  change. 


214 The  Lute  of  Life 

The  lot  of  each  man  is  the  worst, 
According  to  his  own  blind  eyes; 
Himself  the  standard,  in  disguise, 

Of  luckless  fortune,  last  and  first. 

We  strive  to  change  the  changeless  laws 
Of  God  with  syllables  of  prayer — 
With  crazy  supplications  dare 

To  challenge  nature's  primal  Cause. 

Are  we  responsible  for  life — 

Or  were  we  torn  from  nothingness, 
And  clothed  in  garments  of  distress, 

And  circumstanced  with  sin  and  strife? 

What  know  we,  standing  here  alone 
Upon  the  farther  shores  of  fate; 
What  can  we  do  but  work  and  wait, 

And  dream,  and  doubt,  and  wonder  on? 

Ere  long  we  hobble  down  to  death, 
From  earthly  scenes  we  slip  away — 
We  quit  the  precincts  of  the  day, 

And  sleep  the  dewy  vales  beneath. 

We  mix  and  mingle  with  the  clod, 
We  pass  from  our  companions'  eyes, 
And  no  one  telleth,  when  he  dies, 

The  cruel  secrets  of  the  sod. 

No  cries  of  ours,  no  scalding  tears, 
No  mad  expostulations,  can 
Affect  creation's  awful  plan 

One  instant  in  the  sweep  of  years. 

Build  high  the  fire,  heap  up  the  wood, 
Pick  up  your  pipe  and  dream  it  out ; 
Dissolve  in  smoke  the  ghosts  of  doubt, 

And  trust  that  all  is  grand  and  good. 


The  Lute  of  Life  215 


DOOM 

There  is  a  legend  by  the  Norsemen  told, 
How  Odin  to  each  field  of  battle  sends 
His  priestess,  Valkyr,  at  whose  finger-ends 

The  spools  of  destiny  are  all  unrolled; 

Pallid  as  Parian  marble  and  as  cold, 

She  passes  where  the  thickest  carnage  trends, 
Ambassadress  of  doom  to  foes  and  friends, 

Marking  for  speedy  death  the  strong  and  bold. 

So,  in  the  silent  underlands  of  life, 
Concealed  amidst  the  sunshine,  airy  forms 

And  subtle  sit  perpetually  and  spin 
The  tangled  toils  that  trip  us  in  the  strife, — 
They  braid  the  lightning  and  unbind  the  storms, 
And  ope  the  gates  for  death  to  enter  in. 


THE  NEW  DOCTOR 

When  the  race  of  old  doctors  runs  out, 
And  the  new  doctor  comes  with  a  shout, 

And  a  jangle  of  new-fangled  things  that  he 

brings, 

How  the  pulse  of  the  public  will  prance 
At  the  sound  of  his  footsteps,  and  dance 

To  the  song  he  seductively  sings! 

When  the  new  doctor  comes  in  his  pride, 
The  dead  will  be  sorry  they  died, — 
In  fact,  they  will  sigh  for  an  ache 

Or  a  pain  to  endure, 

And  all  for  the  sake — for  the  exquisite  sake — 
Of  a  new-fashioned  cure. 

When  they  look  at  his  pellets  so  pink, 
And  elixirs  that  none  could  resist, 

They  will  groan  in  their  graves,  as  they  think 
Of  the  beautiful  drugs  that  they  missed: — 


216  The  Lute  of  Life 


Of  the  tablet  that  melts  on  the  lips, 
Of  the  tincture  that  sparkles  and  drips 

Like  a  wine  of  the  South, — 
Of  the  granule  that  glimmers  like  gold, 
Of  the  triturate  softer  to  hold 

Than  the  dew  of  a  kiss  on  the  mouth. 

Ah!  the  dead,  they  will  rise  in  revolt, 
Recalling  the  dreadful  old  doses 

Of  jalap  and  gamboge  and  malt, 
That  turned  both  their  stomachs  and  noses ; 

And  the  blessed  old  doctor  who  lies 
With  his  critical  patients,  down  there, 

Will  wish  he  had  only  been  wise 

And  had  worked  on  a  section  somewhere, 

Or  had  followed  a  well-digger's  calling 
Instead   of  a  thankless   profession 
That  ended  in  such  a  mad  session 

Of  rancorous  brawling  and  bawling. 

And  yet,  there's  a  flaw  in  the  flute, 
For  certain  old  fogies  there  be 

Who  still  hold  in  the  highest  repute 
The  plain  and  old-fashioned  M.  D., 
The  quaint  and  congenial  M.  D., 
Whose  saddle-bags  knocked  at  his  knee 

As  he  jogged  up  the  pike 

On  the  back  of  Old  Mike, 

Like  a  knight  of  exalted  degree. 
Aye,  still  his  dear  face  they  can  see, 

And  hear  all  his  "hems"  and  his  "haws," 
As  he  trails  down  the  track 
With  a  pack  on  his  back, 

Like  a  picture  of  old  Santa  Claus: — 

But  hush!  let  my  raillery  pause 
For  a  space, — let  my  fancy  refuse 
Every  prompting,  and  mute  be  my  muse, 

Ere  the  faintest  reflection  it  cast 

On  our  fathers  whose  labors  are  past. 


The  Lute  of  Life  217 

Tho'  the  future  may  flout  them  and  scout  them, 

The  world  had  been  sadder  without  them; 
Tho'  they  rest  in  their  graves  without  glory, 
Tho'  they  live  not  in  song  nor  in  story, 

No  prophet — no  priest — had  a  mission 
More  sacred  thro'  all  the  dumb  years 

Than  that  of  the  old-time  physician, 
Whose  dust  we  bedew  with  our  tears. 


A  GOLDEN  WEDDING 

Take  out  the  distaff  and  the  reel, 
Take  out  the  loom  and  spinning-wheel, 
For  lo!  'tis  almost  set  of  sun; 
The  weaver's  work  at  last  is  done — 
The  knot  is  tied — the  web  is  spun. 
Go  hang  it  on  the  western  walls 
Where  yonder  sinking   sunlight   falls, 
And  count  the  cost  in  hopes  and  fears, 
In  disappointments,  doubts,  and  tears, 
Of  that  gold  fabric  of  the  years. 

O  wondrous  work!     To-day  it  stands 

A  witness  of  the  willing  hands 

That  thro'  long  days  and  nights  of  pain 
So  ceaseless  toiled  with  might  and  main 
To  gain  the  goal  to-night  they  gain — 

The  recompense  of  work  well  done, 

The  love  of  man  and  woman  won 
By  countless  acts  of  kindness,  such 
As  Envy's  finger  may  not  touch, 
And  God  can  not  reward  too  much. 

Twin-toilers,  greyed  with  goodly  deeds, 
The  record  of  your  struggle  reads 

Like  some  quaint  legend,  downward  flung 
From  prophet's  pen  or  poet's  tongue, 
Of  heroes,  when  the  world  was  young ; — 


The  Lute  of  Life 


Or  like  some  fairy  story  told 

Of  fortitude,  in  days  of  old, 

When  Arthur's  Knights  in  Lyonesse 
Rode  forth  to  succor  the  distress 
Of  Innocence  and  Loveliness. 

To-night,  Love's  planet,  like  the  moon, 

Is  rounded  to  its  plenilune, 

In  skies  of  azure,  soft  and  clear, 

And  all  the  dewy  atmosphere 

Is  laced  with  laughter,  far  and  near,  — 

With  laughter,  and  the  tinkling  feet 

Of  rowdy  children,  swift  to  greet 
The  silvered  saint,  within  whose  eyes 
They  trace  the  trail  of  nuts  and  pies, 
With  instinct  wonderfully  wise. 

O  happy  pair  !  O  flower-crowned  night  ! 

Love  glimmers  like  a  chrysolite 
From  every  glad  and  glancing  eye 
As  runs  the  rosy  revel  high 
Beneath  the  blue  September  sky. 

With  lisp  of  lute  and  virelay, 

We  braid  with  song  their  bridal-day; 
And  on  this  heap  of  golden  sheaves 
We  lay  a  wreath  of  laurel  leaves 
That  Friendship's  hand  for  Honor  weaves. 


A  DREAM 

"Have  you  forgotten  me?"  she  said, 
As  I,  her  old-time  worshiper, 
Stood  blanched  and  bloodless  as  the  dead 
And  gazed  upon  the  face  of  her. 

As  soon  may  yon  poor  bird  (thought  I) 
Left  mangled  by  the  hedge  to  die, 
Forget  the  shaft  that  festers  yet 
Within  its  breast, — as  I  forget. 


The  Lute  of  Life  219 

But,  oh!  each  old  remembered  wrong 

Died  in  an  instant  when  I  traced 

The  lines  of  agony  that  laced 

The  face  of  her  I  loved  so  long. 

I  read  within  her  channelled  cheek 
A  wretchedness  no  tongue  could  speak, — 
And  so,  bent  with  the  pain  of  years, 
I  wept, — and  kissed  her  thro'  my  tears. 


BEFORE  THE  DOCTOR 

She  quivered  like  a  frightened  fawn,  her  lashes 
Sodden  with  long  suffering,  as  she  stood 
Before  the  Healer,  blanched  with  motherhood 

Of  guilt  and  shame,  her  girl-heart  turned  to  ashes ; 

Then  sudden  as  a  glacier  that  crashes 
Tumultuous  down  Shasta  or  Mount  Hood, 
The  ice  slid  from  her  spirit  in  a  flood, 

Disclosing  all  its  secret  sears  and  gashes. 

The  listener  shuddered  as  the  sinking  sun 

Streamed  thro'  the  flowerless  chasms  of  her  soul, 

Naked  and  penitent,  and  unforgiven 
By  all  save  him,  the  tender-hearted  one, 
Who  stooped  beside  her,  striving  to  console, 
And  Him  who  reached  a  hand  to  her  from 
Heaven. 


A  RHYME  OF  RESIGNATION 

Curled  up  here  in  the  heart  of  the  world, 
What  care  we  how  the  wild  winds  blow  ? 

However  the  wheels  of  fate  be  whirled, 
We'll  sing  together  through  weal  or  woe ; 

Better  forever  to  laugh  than  cry, 

For  never  a  sob  nor  a  tear  can  buy 
One  crumb  for  the  journey  that  all  men  go. 


22O  The  Lute  of  Life 


Let  dreamers  dream  of  a  day  more  fair, 
Of  a  state  more  flourishing  yet  to  be — 

But  happier  far  are  they  who  share 
The  opulent  Now,  with  its  gleam  and  glee ; 

Better  one  moment  of  brave,  sweet  mirth 

Than  all  vain  hopes  that  have  vexed  the  earth 
Since  God  first  parted  the  land  and  sea. 


WHAT  DOES  IT  MATTER? 

What  does  it  matter  to  me  or  you 

If  death  should  come  in  a  year,  or  a  day, — 

Is  it  better  to  plod  with  the  puny  few 
Than,  kinglike,  stride  from  the  world  away? 

When  the  bugles  of  doom  begin  to  play, 
When  the  end  draws  nigh,  and  the  grave  's  in  view, 

Shall  we  pule  like  cowards,  and  plead  to  stay, 
Or  face  our  fates  as  the  martyrs  do? 

Life  has  less  of  the  rose  than  rue, 

And  always  more  of  the  March  than  the  May ; 
When  the  hopes  are  flown  that  our  hearts  pursue, 

Death,  if  he  love  us,  should  not  delay. 

When  Love  lies  stark  by  the  sombre  yew, 
Then  sleep  is  sweet,  though  it  last  for  aye ; 

So  what  does  it  matter  to  me  or  you 
If  we  die  in  a  year,  or  die  to-day? 


DAY  AND  NIGHT 

When  drowsy  Day  draws  round  his  downy  bed 
The  Tyrian  tapestries  of  gold  and  red, 

And,  weary  of  his  flight, 

Puts  out  the  palace  light, — 
Tis  night! 


The  Lute  of  Life  221 


When  languid  Night,  awakening  with  a  yawn, 
Leaps  down  the  moon-washed  stairway  of  the  dawn, 

In  trailing  disarray, 

Sweeping  the  dews  away,-^ 
'T  is  day ! 


AD  FINEM 

I  'd  have  some  old  friend  near  me  when  I  die — 
Some  old  familiar  face  in  kindness  bent 
Above  my  bed,  when  my  last  hour  is  spent, — 

Some  gentle  hand  that  in  the  days  gone  by 

Has  clasped  my  own  in  firmest  fealty, 
And  known  each  failing  and  each  fair  intent ; — 
I  simply  ask  that  such  alone  be  sent 

To  brace  me  with  brave  words  and  close  my  eye. 

However  tenderly  the  stranger  try 

To  ease  my  anguish  and  allay  my  pain, 

I  miss  the  glances  to  which  mine  reply 

Like  famished  grasses  unto  summer  rain, — 
And  so  in  fancy  of  the  end,  I  fain 

Would  have  some  old  friend  near  me  when  I  die. 


IN  SOUDAN 

Ended  that  strange  career, 

Long  so  victorious, 
Slain  by  an  Arab's  spear, 

Gordon,  the  glorious; 
Stark  under  torrid  skies, 

Girdled  with  gloom, 
Britain's  best  soldier  lies 

Dead  in  Khartoum. 

Stewart  falls  bleeding,  and 
Earle  is  in  glory, — 


222  The  Lute  of  Life 


Steady,  now !  hand  to  hand, 

Sweep  all  before  ye! 
Close  up  the  shattered  square, 

Stand  fast,  who  can! 
Strike !  while  a  hope  is  there 

Left  in  Soudan. 

Mothers  of  England,  weep! 

Weep,  sons  and  daughters! 
Weep  for  the  brave  who  sleep, 

Hard  by  Nile's  waters! 
Weep  for  your  Burnaby 

Dead  in  the  van, — 
Weep  ye,  for  all  who  lie 

Cold  in  Soudan. 


LAY  OF  THE  HOPELESS 

Here  they  lie  beneath  the  grass, 
Folded  in  a  fleece  of  flowers; 
Like  to  shadows  over  glass 
They  have  passed,  as  we  must  pass, 
These  associates  of  ours. 

In  the  coffined  earth  they  dwell, 
Neighbors  to  each  other  yet; 
Sealed  in  Death's  eternal  cell, 
Sweetly  slumber  they,  and  well, 
Under  vine  and  violet. 

Theirs  to  sleep,  but  not  to  dream; 

Never  shall  they  lift  their  lashes; 
Cheerless  as  the  moon's  pale  beam, 
Or  the  stars  that  nightly  gleam 

On  their  tablets,  are  their  ashes. 

Here  the  king  forgets  his  gold, 
Foes  lie  here  with  one  another; 


The  Lute  of  Life  223 

To  these  tenements  of  mold 
Nature  gathers  all  her  fold, — 
She,  the  tender,  loving  mother. 

Fickle  is  this  breathing  clay, 

Love  is  mutable  as  matter ; 
But  when  Death  shuts  out  the  day, 
Farewell  doubt  and  all  dismay! 

Clods  are  friends  that  never  flatter. 

Dust  above  and  dust  below, 
Dust  our  dwelling,  dust  are  we; 

Dust  is  all  the  fact  we  know — 

Dust  the  universe,  and  lo! 
"Dust  to  dust"  is  its  decree. 

Thro'  the  pallid  worm's  red  lips 

Lies  the  path  we  all  pursue, 
Leading  down  to  Life's  eclipse, 
Where  no  daylight  ever  dips 

And  no  starlight  reaches  to. 


A  SONG 

One  year  ago  to-night,  love, 

One  little  year  ago, 
Our  hearts  were  beating  light,  love, 

Our  spirits  were  aglow; 
Your  eyes,  to  mine  replying, 
Were  like  the  warm  stars  lying 

On  tropic  seas  below — 
One  year  ago  to-night,  love, 

One  little  year  ago. 

One  year  ago  to-night,  love, 

Not  any  care  was  ours ; 
Time  halted  in  his  flight,  love, 
To  sleep  among  the  flowers; 


224 The  Lute  of  Life 

Your  hand  in  mine  reposing 
Was  like  a  dove  a-dozing 

At  dusk  amid  the  bowers — 
One  year  ago  to-night,  love, 

Not  any  care  was  ours. 

One  year  ago  to-night,  love, 

We  walked  in  paradise ; 
And  all  the  stars  in  sight,  love, 

Were  shining  in  your  eyes; 
But  time  and  fate  together 
Have  brought  the  wintry  weather 

And  shut  the  smiling  skies — 
(One  year  ago  to-night,  love, 

We  walked  in  paradise). 


A  BALLAD  OF  TEARS 

"The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall," 

Low  moaned  a  mother,  as  she  kept 
A  nightly  vigil  over  all 

Her  household  idols  as  they  slept ; 
The  storm  came  down  against  the  pane, 

She  heard,  far  off,  strange  voices  call, 
As  still  she  sobbed  in  drear  refrain, 

"The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall." 

"The  tears  I  shed  must  ever. fall," 

Sighed  one — an  aged  man — who  stood 
Beside  a  tablet  gray  and  tall, 

Far  in  a  churchyard's  solitude; 
The  past  burned  back  upon  his  brain 

With  dreams  of  bliss  beyond  recall, — 
Poor  soul !  he  whispered  thro'  his  pain, 

"The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall." 

"The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall," 
A  hungry,  houseless  exile  wailed, 


The  Lute  of  Life 225 

As  o'er  him,  from  a  festal-hall, 

The  lights  of  joy  and  splendor  trailed. 

He  wept, — his  weeping  was  in  vain, 
For  death  itself  could  not  forestall 

The  anguish  of  his  cold  refrain, 
"The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall." 

"The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall," 

A  lone  girl  sang,  and  singing,  heard 
The  waves  beat  on  the  dim  sea-wall 

In  mournful  melody  and  weird; 
The  night  caught  up  the  plaintive  strain, 

As,  folding  round  her,  like  a  pall, 
It  rustled  to  the  dull  refrain, 

"The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall." 


THE  PEASANT  AND  THE  POET 

Strode  a  peasant,  worn  and  weary, 
Near  a  poet,  lying  very 
Lazily  within  the  shadow 
Of  a  cool  tree  by  the  meadow ; 
And  the  peasant,  care-encumbered, 
Fell  to  chiding  him  who  slumbered 
So  serenely  while  his  neighbors 
Found  no  surcease  from  their  labors. 

"Lazy  poet,  lolling  yonder, 
What  is  life  to  you,  I  wonder, 
That,  while  out  at  heel  and  pocket, 
You  can  laugh  at  it  and  mock  it, — 
Spin  it  from  your  pencil-tip, 
Puff  it  lightly  from  your  lip, — 
Never  caring,  never  knowing, 
Whence  it  came  or  whither  going? 

"Lazy  poet,  dreaming  yonder, 
Coolly  choosing  thus  to  squander 


226  The  Lute  of  Life 


All  your  spirit's  subtle  sinew, 
All  the  strength  of  genius  in  you, 
On  a  lover's  silly  sonnet, — 
Has  the  broad  earth  nothing  on  it, 
Nothing  better  worth  your  while, 
Than  a  dimple  or  a  smile? 

"Lazy  poet,  nodding  yonder, 
Care  you  not  at  all,  I  wonder, 
For  the  troubles  that  perplex  us, 
For  the  daily  ills  that  vex  us? 
Care  you  nothing  for  the  sorrow 
Of  the  present  or  the  morrow?" 

Then  the  poet,  rising  merely 

From  his  napping,  sang  so  clearly, 

Sang  so  bravely  and  sincerely, 

Of  the  world's  woes  that  oppressed  him, 

That  the  peasant  turned — and  blessed  him. 


THE  MEADOW-LARK 

Of  all  the  song-birds  of  the  circling  year, 
There  is  not  one  so  musical,  so  sweet, 
So  heavenly  perfect,  yet  so  incomplete, 

As  is  the  meadow-lark,  that  rises  clear 

At  rosy  daybreak,  when  the  spring  is  near, 
Dashing  the  dew-drops  from  its  dainty  feet, 
And  fluttering  down  the  rolling  fields  of  wheat, 

To  pipe  its  ditties  in  the  south-wind's  ear. 

To  me  it  is  the  bird  of  Paradise — 
I  never  hear  its  wild  notes  but  a  thrill 
Of  boyish  love  and  unconstrained  delight 
Possess  my  soul,  and  waft  me  through  the  night 
Of  songless  years  to  childhood's  happy  skies, 
And  all  the  sunless  void  with  raptures  fill. 


The  Lute  of  Life  227 


TO  MY  ABSENT  WIFE 

How  slowly,  sadly  move  the  hours 
Each  day  across  the  dial  of  my  life, 
Since  thou,  with  those  two  prattling  boys  of  ours, 

Art  gone  from  me,  dear  wife. 

Sadly  thy  gentle  voice  I  miss, 
Thy  voice  more  mellow  than  the  lyre  or  lute; 
I  miss  thy  soft  caress,  thy  tender  kiss, 

And  all  Love's  flower  and  fruit. 

I  miss  thy  body's  matchless  grace, 
Its  peerless  presence,  its  unstudied  art, — 
I  miss  the  music  of  thy  form  and  face, 

The  glow  of  thy  fond  heart. 

I  count  the  tardy  days,  as  one 
Who  waits  in  ecstasy  the  bridal  night, 
Impatient  for  each  slow-descending  sun 

To  sheathe  his  shafts  of  light. 

How  oft  amid  the  twilight  grey 
I  musing  sit  beside  the  dark'ning  door, 
My  doom  divining  wert  thou  borne  away 

From  me  forevermore. 

Perish  the  cruel  dream,  the  thought! 
Apart  from  thine,  my  soul  can  not  exist; 
Death  may  divide  us  for  a  time, — but  not 

Eternally,  I  wist. 

• 

I  mutter  no  mock  sentiment! 
This  love  of  mine  is  tempered  and  annealed 
With  all  the  trustfulness  and  calm  content 

That  Heaven  itself  can  yield. 

How  sad  must  be  the  lot  of  him 
Who  daily  feels  his  heart's  affections  fail, — 


228  The  Lute  of  Life 


Whose  soul  grows  sullen,  and  whose  senses  swim 
Against  love's  genial  gale. 

Dear  wife,  upon  this  spotless  scroll 
I  trace  with  feeble  skill  the  fancies  keen 
That  crowd  the  cheerless  chambers  of  my  soul 

Since  thou  hast  absent  been. 

Good-night,  fond  one,  the  hour  grows  late! 
As  softly  sinks  yon  moon  into  the  West, 
So  sink  my  watchful  spirit,  with  its  weight 

Of  love,  into  thy  breast 


TO  MADGE 

You  fear  your  body's  beauty,  not  your  soul, 

Allures  me  most,  my  dear — 
Banish  the  thought!  your  spirit  is  a  scroll 

On  whose  bright  page  appear 
All  graces  that  I  dream  of — all  I  love, 

And  all  for  which  I  pray; 
A  woman's  tender  heart  I  prize  above 

Its  shell  of  crumbling  clay. 

The  charms  of  body,  lovely  to  the  eye, 

Are  but  as  rainbow  rays 
That  bend  and  brighten  in  the  summer  sky, 

But  vanish  as  we  gaze ; 
While  the  pure  soul,  as  steady  as  a  star, 

Pours  its  eternal  light 
Around  about  us,  howsoever  far 

We  wander  in  the  night. 

The  ruby  lips,  the  lily  cheeks,  will  pale, 

The  sparkling  eyes  grow  dim — 
The  firm,  elastic  flesh  at  length  will  fail, 

And  lameness  find  each  limb; 
But  fadeless  are  the  beauteous  thoughts  that  burn 


The  Lute  of  Life  229 


Above  this  fleeting  breath; 
The  soul's  fair  temple  into  dust  may  turn, 
But  love  shall  laugh  at  death. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE-FLY 

Go  throw  the  shutters  open  wide  and  lift  the  windows 
high, 

Let  out  the  silence  and  the  gloom,  let  in  the  jolly  fly; 

I  'm  weary  of  this  stale  repose,  and  long  to  hear  again 

The  sweetest  sound  of  all  the  year,  the  fly  upon  the 
pane ; — 

I  long  to  see  him  bobbing  up  and  down  the  sill  and 
sash, 

I  long  to  feel  his  tickling  tread  upon  my  soft  mus- 
tache ; 

I  love  to  see  him  tilting  on  his  slender,  tender  toes, 

I  love  to  watch  him  bump  and  buzz,  and  balance  on 
his  nose. 

In  all  the  universe,  to-day,  of  merry  song  and  glee, 

O,  tell  me  where  's  another  that  is  happier  than  he. 

Then  throw  the  shutters  open  wide  and  lift  the  win- 
dows high, 

Let  out  the  gloom  and  silence,  and  let  in  the  jolly  fly. 

O  the  old  house-fly!  O  the  brave  house-fly! 
A-straddling  o'er  the  butter-dish,  a-sprawling  o'er  the 

pie, — 
A-jogging  thro'  the  jell  and  jam,  and  jouncing  round 

the  cream 

As  prone  to  risk  a  summer  sail  upon  the  milky  stream ; 
A  roving  life  the  rascal  leads  thro'  all  the  rosy  hours, 
A-sipping  only  of  the  sweets  and  skipping  all  the 

sours ; 

A  button-headed  roustabout,  a  lover  light  and  bold, 
Who  revels  on  the  ripest  lips  that  mortal  eyes  behold ; 
Who  clambers  up  the  softest  cheek  and  up  the  whitest 

arm, 


230 The  Lute  of  Life 

And  loiters  on  the  fairest  breast  that  ever  love  made 
warm. 

Then  throw  the  shutters  open  wide  and  lift  the  win- 
dows high, 

Let  out  the  silence  and  the  gloom,  let  in  the  jolly  fly. 

O  the  old  house-fly !  O  the  jolly  house-fly ! 

He  was  present  at  our  coming,  he  '11  be  with  us  when 
we  die ; 

From  Turkestan  to  Mexico  his  broad  dominion  runs, 

And  his  nature  never  changes  with  the  "process  of 
the  suns"; 

From  the  days  of  dusky  Cheops,  down  thro'  centuries 
of  dirt, 

'Tis  a  matter  of  conjecture  if  he  ever  washed  his  shirt; 

He  has  dined  with  every  poet  from  the  patriarchal 
Chaucer, 

He  has  often  taken  pleasure-trips  in  Billy  Shake- 
speare's saucer; 

He  dipped  his  saucy  noddle  into  Cleopatra's  cup 

When  the  amorous  Antonius  his  kingdom  offered  up. 

Then  throw  the  shutters  open  wide  and  lift  the  win- 
dows high, 

'L,et  out  the  silence  and  the  gloom,  let  in  the  jolly  fly. 

O  the  old  house-fly !  O  the  naughty  house-fly ! 

He  dances  on  the  baby's  lip  and  on  the  dead  man's 

eye; 
He 's  first  to  taste  the  tawny  wine  within  the  tippler's 

glass, 
He  prances  on  the  prelate's  nose  whene'er  he  goes  to 

mass; 
He 's  found  within  the  skipper's  hut  and  in  the  gilded 

hall, 

A  giddy  gambolier,  who  pays  his  compliments  to  all ; 
When  our  mothers  rocked  the  cradles  in  the  cabins 

of  our  birth, 
His  happy  chorus  blended  with  the  cricket  on  the 

hearth, — 


The  Lute  of  Life 231 

And  I  love  the  recollection  of  the  hours  I  've  see«a  him 
crawl, 

In  the  summer-time  of  childhood,  up  and  down  the 
whitened  wall. 

Then  throw  the  shutters  open  wide  and  lift  the  win- 
dows high, 

Let  out  the  gloom  and  silence,  and  let  in  the  jolly  fly. 


TO  THE  BARD  THAT  IS  TO  BE 

O,  sing  no  more  of  Pan, — 

Let  him  slumber,  if  you  can, 

By  the  old  Italian  streams 

Where  he  died, 

With  his  pipe  and  with  his  dreams 
At  his  side. 

And  sing  no  more  of  Venus, 
Or  of  Bacchus  or  Silenus, 
Where  the  Roman  rivers  flow ; 

Let  them  rest 

For  a  thousand  years  or  so, — 
It  is  best. 

Sing  no  longer  of  Apollo, 
And  the  goddesses  that  follow 
Up  Olympus,  lone  and  dim, 

In  his  train, — 

We  have  had  enough  of  him 
And  his  reign. 

Come  away,  and  let  them  go, 
They  have  nothing  left  to  show 
That  is  worthy  of  the  hands 

Of  to-day  — 
In  the  mythologic  lands 
Let  them  stay. 


232  The  Lute  of  Life 


If  you  be  a  poet  true, 
Sing  us   something  that  is  new — * 
Something  on  a  higher  plan 

That  will  thrill 

And  enthrall  the  heart  of  man, 
If  you  will. 

Sing  a  song  that  will  awake 
Whispered  praises  for  the  sake 
Of  the  minstrel  that  can  so 

Gladden  us, 

As  he  fareth  to  and  fro, 
Singing  thus. 

There's  a  world  of  grander  themes 
Than  the  dead  old  days  and  dreams 
Trampled  in  the  dust  of  Greece 

Or  of  Rome, — 
You  can  find  it,  if  you  please, 
Nearer  home. 

Then  turn  your  eyes  away 
From  the  ruins  dim  and  gray 
Of  the  past, — and  for  a  time 

Let  them  rest 
On  a  region  more  sublime, 
Lying  west. 


THE  SONG  WE  SEEK 

Somewhere  in  the  Soul's  white  center, 
Where  Art  is  forbidden  to  enter, 
The  sweetest  song  and  the  best 
Forever  waits  unexpressed. 

Trilled  by  no  human  tongue, 
It  still  must  bide  unsung 
Till  mortal  flesh  shall  fail 
And  Love  o'er  all  prevail. 


The  Lute  of  Life  233 


Ye  seek,  but  ye  can  not  find  it, 
O  poets,  till  death  unbind  it, 
And  then,  like  a  living  thing, 
It  shall  leap  to  the  light  and  sing. 
Ear  hath  never  caught 
The  beauty  of  its  thought — 
And  the  rapture  of  its  tone 
Is  Eternity's  alone. 


INSOMNIA 

Into  the  dark  and  chambered  deep 

I  wearily  cast  my  eye, 
And  cry  to  the  echoing  night  for  sleep, 

But  ever  in  vain  I  cry. 

For  the  wheels  of  memory  turn, 

And  passions  old  arise, 
And  the  wasted  years  come  back  and  burn 

The  slumber  out  of  my  eyes. 

And  I  sob  like  a  child  in  pain, 
For  the  rest  that  comes  not  nigh ; 

And  out  in  the  dark  I  hear  the  rain, 
Where  my  shattered  idols  lie. 


AN  ODD  FANCY 

Beneath  this  covering  of  flesh  our  skeletons  are  march- 
ing to  the  grave,  and  everything  on  earth  that  we 
long  for  and  that  we  love  is  but  a  covered  skele- 
ton.— HON.  NEWTON  BOOTH. 

Just  back  of  the  light  of  her  eyes, 
Just  under  the  pink  of  her  hands, 

Whose  velvet  the  lily  out-vies, 
A  skeleton  stands. 


234  The  Lute  of  Life 


Beneath  the  gold  crown  of  her  tress, 
And  the  clustering  gems  that  she  wears, 

And  under  the  silks  that  caress, 
A  skeleton  stares. 

Her  laughter  is  that  of  a  lover, 
Her  lips  are  as  lush  as  the  South, 

And  I  shudder  to  think  they  but  cover 
A  skeleton's  mouth. 

Her  steps  are  as  light  as  the  low 
Drip  of  dew  from  the  rim  of  a  rose, 

•Yet  I  know  that  wherever  they  go 
A  skeleton  goes. 

She  sits  at  the  banquet  with  me, 
And  ever  her  loveliness  wins; 

Yet  back  of  her  beauty  I  see 
A  skeleton  grins. 

She  is  first  at  the  party  and  ball, 
And  the  grace  of  her  motion  entrances 

Like  music; — yet  under  it  all 
A  skeleton  dances. 

Tho'  shocked  at  the  plight  she  is  in, 
One  thought  I  have  kept  out  of  view : 

Perhaps  she  sees  under  my  skin 
A  skeleton,  too. 


PASSION'S  CHECKMATE 

Bring  him  to  his  knees,  and  make 
All  his  hardened  heart-strings  quake 
With  the  hot  mesmeric  glance 
Of  thy  crafty  countenance; 
Blind  him  with  thy  beauty  till 
He  hath  neither  wit  nor  will ; 


The  Lute  of  Life 235 

Pet  his  passion  till  he  grow 
Tiger-fierce — then  bid  him  go. 

Let  no  pity  move  thee — he 

Never  pitied  one  like  thee. 

Sting  him  with  thy  charms,  and  then 

Loop  him  in  thine  arms  again; 

Bind  him — coil  him  in  thy  tress 

With  an  artful  tenderness, 

Till  his  fevered  lips  shall  glow 

Pleadingly — then  bid  him  go. 

Just  a  little  short  of  death 
Pause,  and  give  him  back  his  breath ; 
Spare  his  life,  but  let  him  find 
How  the  wheels  of  passion  grind; 
Teach  him  this,  that  true-love  is 
Sweeter  than  a  wanton's  kiss; 
Crush  him  till  he  cry — and  so 
Break  his  pride  and  bid  him  go. 


TO  A  SLEEPING  BOY 

Ah,  little  dreamer !  stealing  from  the  day 
The  golden  keystone  of  the  arching  hours, 
To  lay  thy  drowsy  head  among  the  flowers, 

And  down  Lethean  waters  sail  away ! 

The  wind  is  in  thy  ringlets,  boy,  and  they, 
In  flossy  tumult,  fall  in  fairy  showers 
Around  thy  cheek,  and  all  thy  childish  powers 

Are  chained  in  sleep,  beneath  the  sun's  bright  ray. 

The  beetle,  droning  in  the  apple  tree, 
Thy  mate  is,  and  the  whistling  bobolink 

Pipes  half  his  sweetest  roundelays  to  thee; — 

Sleep,  little  truant,  in  the  singing  grass! 

The  days  will  wither,  and  the  years  will  shrink. 

And  all  too  soon  thy  rosy  dreams  will  pass. 


236  The  Lute  of  Life 


"JOUKYD  ADDLES" 

O,  where  is  Joukydaddles, 

O,  where,  where,  where — 
The  little  chubby  codger 

That  was  toddlin'  here  and  there, 
With  the  jelly  on  his  chin, 

And  the  butter  on  his  cheeks, 
And  his  lubber  little  legs 

With  their  puddle-muck  streaks? 

O,  where  is  Joukydaddles, 

O,  where,  where,  where — 
With  the  bonnie  breezes  blowin' 

In  his  curly  brown  hair; 
The  little  busybody 

In  his  berry-stained  shirt, 
A-dabblin'  with  his  wee 

Tawny  fingers  in  the  dirt? 

O,  where  is  Joukydaddles, 

O,  where,  where,  where — 
Who  daily  used  to  tumble 

Down  the  old  cellar-stair; 
The  burly  little  bandit 

With  the  big  jeweled  eyes, — 
The  bloody  buccaneer 

'Mong  the  bugs  and  butterflies? 

O,  where  is  Joukydaddles, 

O,  where,  where,  where — 
We  never  see  him  here, 

And  we  never  hear  him  there; 
There's  a  shadow  at  the  threshold, 

A  silence  on  the  floor, 
And  a  dusty  little  roundabout 

Is  danglin'  on  the  door; 
We  call — but  Joukydaddles 

Never  answers  any  more. 


The  Lute  of  Life  237 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  MY  GARDEN 

The  ghosts  of  my  garden ! 

They  glimmer — they  shine 
In  the  moonlight,  aghast, 

Thro'  this  casement  of  mine; 
They  start  in  their  star-shrouds, 

Adrift  from  the  brown 
Braided  grass  that,  by  daylight, 

Close  fetters  them  down, — 
The  ghosts  of  my  garden. 

The  ghosts  of  my  garden! 

They  glisten — they  rise, 
With  the  frost  on  their  faces, 

The  death  on  their  eyes; 
No  turf  can  entomb  them, 

No  prison  confine, — 
They  swarm  in  the  shadow, 

But  shrink  in  the  shine, — 
The  ghosts  of  my  garden. 

The  ghosts  of  my  garden ! 

The  lily — the  rose — 
They  meet  there,  they  greet  there, 

Knee-deep  in  the  snows ; — 
The  queens  of  the  summer 

Discrowned  of  their  gold, — 
The  skies  can  not  shrive  them, 
The  earth  can  not  hold — 

The  ghosts  of  my  garden. 

The  ghosts  of  my  garden ! 

The  hollyhock  stands 
By  the  foxglove,  bowed  low, 

With  closed  eyes  and  clasp'd  hands; 
While  the  scepterless  sunflower, 

Sedately  and  tall, 
Caressingly  stoops 


238 The  Lute  of  Life 

As  if  blessing  them  all, — 
The  ghosts  of  my  garden. 

The  ghosts  of  my  garden! 

They  shimmer — they  sweep 
Thro'  the  field  of  my  vision, 

As  dreams  do,  in  sleep; 
They  start  in  their  star-shrouds, 

Adrift  from  the  brown 
Braided  grass  that,  by  daylight, 

Close  fetters  them  down, — 
The  ghosts  of  my  garden. 


MY  GUEST 

There  is  a  guest  that  I  detest,  forever  at  my  side, 
Who  clings  to  me  as  fondly  as  a  bridegroom  to  his 

bride ; 
Who  leers  at  me  and  jeers  at  me,  and  when  I  cross 

his  will, 

Who  only  smiles  sardonic'ly,  and  hugs  me  closer  still ; 
I  hate  him,  and  berate  him,  yet  he  trudges  at  my  heels, 
And  reaches  in  my  pockets,  and  revels  at  my  meals ; 
I  defy  him,  and  would  fly  him,  but  he  only  presses 

closer, 
And  whispers  to  each  wish  of  mine  an  everlasting 

"No,  sir." 

I  have  chided  and  derided  till  I  'm  almost  out  of  heart, 
I  've  abused  him  and  misused  him,  but  he  never  will 

depart ; — 
He  squeezes  me  and  freezes  me,  and  well-nigh  drives 

me  mad, 
He  tortures  and  he  teases  me,  and  growls  when  I  am 

glad; 
He  glares  at  me  and  stares  at  me,  as  any  ghoul  might 

do, 

He  has  shattered  every  promise  that  my  soul  was  an- 
chored to; 


The  Lute  of  Life  239 

He  has  wrecked  me,  and  bedecked  me  with  the  tat- 
tered garbs  of  woe, 
He  has  crossed  my  happy  threshold,  and  jias  laid  my 

loved  ones  low ; 

He  's  as  wary  as  a  beagle,  and  he  grins  in  such  a  style 
That  the  cunning  of  a  serpent  is   apparent   in  his 

smile ; 

He  is  lank,  he  is  lean,  and  his  fingers  are  unclean, 
He  is  ragged,  he  is  haggard,  he  is  spiteful  and  he  's 

mean; 

Than  Adam  he  is  older,  than  Satan  he  is  bolder, 
He  's  as  ghastly  as  a  skeleton,  and  uglier  and  colder ; 
When  the  winter-winds   are  dire,  he  sits  crouching 

at  my  fire, 
And  glowering  at  my  beggary  with  eyes  that  never 

tire; 
He  's  the  parent  of  all  crime,  in  each  country  and  each 

clime, 
And  has  tramped  the  wide  world  over  hand  in  hand 

with  Father  Time; 
His  record  all  may  read  in  the  hearts  that  break  and 

bleed,  " 
On  the  lips  of  little  children  that  forever  pine  and 

plead ; 
And  his  deeds  are  further  written  over  sleepless  eyes 

red-litten, 
Over  cold  and  empty  cradles,  over  roofs  by  sorrow 

smitten, 
Over  shattered  hopes '  once  cherished,  over  pleasures 

that  have  perished, 
Over  broken  dreams  of  glory  that  a  better  manhood 

nourished ; 

In  the  byways  and  the  highways  he  goes  onward  un- 
molested, 
And  wakes  the  world  to  labor  ere  its  weary  hands 

are  rested ; 
He 's  a  beggar  and  a  ranger,  and  was  present,  not  a 

stranger, 
At  the  birth  of  the  Messiah,  in  the  cold  Judean  manger ; 


240 The  Lute  of  Life 

He  has  trailed  along  the  path  of  the  tempest  in  its 
wrath, 

And  has  gloated  o'er  the  ruins  of  the  moldered  after- 
math; 

He 's  the  Prince  of  Empty  Pockets,  out  at  elbow  and 
at  knee, 

He 's  a  knight  without  a  copper,  whom  we  nickname — 
Poverty. 


VALE! 

Farewell,  O  nights  of  ceaseless  ecstasies! 

Farewell  old  loves,  and  all  the  tranced  hours ! 

Far  flies  my  spirit's  bark,  and  darkly  lowers, 
On  every  hand,  the  tempest-breathing  skies ; 
The  lifted  ocean  lit  with  lurid  eyes 

Breaks  round  me — bears  me  with  resistless  powers 

Thitherward  from  a  land  of  light  and  flowers, 
To  the  bleak  islands  where  no  morns  arise. 

My  panting  heart  leans  backwardly  forlorn, 
Reluctant  to  resign  the  dear  delight 
With  which  my  restless  boyhood  was  bedight, 

Ere  I  had  known  that  man  was  made  to  mourn ; — 
But  farewell,  happy  hours,  no  more  to  be, 
The  storms  are  out — strange  shores  are  beck'ning 
me. 


A  RETORT 

I  deem  it  wrong — ah,  more  than  wrong — 
That  one  so  blest  with  man's  esteem 

Should  thus  declare,  with  cynic  tongue, 
That  friendship  's  but  an  empty  dream. 

Be  bitter,  if  thou  wilt,  and  blind 
To  every  virtue,  every  grace, — 


The  Lute  of  Life 241 

But  still  let  honest  friendship  find 
Within  thy  heart  a  welcome  place. 

Be  not  a  scoffer,  vain  and  cold, 
With  sordid  wishes,  selfish  ends, — 

The  very  earth  disdains  to  hold 
The  renegade  who  has  no  friends. 

The  world,  God  knows,  is  foul  enough 
With  petty  jealousies  and  jeers, — 

Then  sing  no  more,  or  sing  of  Love 
And  all  her  merry  worshipers. 

And  say  not,  while  the  blood  of  youth 
Doth  mantle  o'er  thy  cheek  like  flame, 

That  hearts  are  strangers  unto  truth 
And  friendship 's  but  an  empty  name. 


BALLADE  OF  BUSY  DOCTORS 

When  winter  pipes  in  the  poplar-tree, 

And  soles  are  shod  with  the  snow  and  sleet — 
When  sick-room  doors  close  noiselessly, 

And  doctors  hurry  along  the  street; 

When  the  bleak  north-winds  at  the  gables  beat, 
And  the  flaky  noon  of  the  night  is  nigh, 

And  the  reveler's  laugh  grows  obsolete, — 
Then  Death,  white  Death,  is  a-driving  by. 

When  the  cowering  sinner  crooks  his  knee 

At  the  cradle-side,  in  suppliance  sweet, 
And  friends  converse  in  a  minor  key, 

And  doctors  hurry  along  the  street; 

When  Croesus  flies  to  his  country  seat, 
And  castaways  in  the  garret  cry, 

And  in  each  house  is  a  "shape  and  a  sheet,"— 
Then  Death,  white  Death,  is  a-driving  by. 
16 


242  The  Lute  of  Life 

When  the  blast  of  the  autumn  blinds  the  bee, 

And  the  long  rains  fall  on  the  ruined  wheat, 
When  a  glimmer  of  green  on  the  pools  we  see, 

And  doctors  hurry  along  the  street; 

When  every  fellow  we  chance  to  meet 
Has  a  fulvous  glitter  in  either  eye, 

And  a  weary  wobble  in  both  his  feet, — 
Then  Death,  white  Death,  is  a-driving  by. 

i/  ENVOI 

When  farmers  ride  at  a  furious  heat, 
And  doctors  hurry  along  the  street, 
With  brave  hearts  under  a  scowling  sky, — 
Then  Death,  white  Death,  is  a-driving  by. 


CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS 

Sailing  before  the  silver  shafts  of  morn, 

He  bore  the  White  Christ  over  alien  seas — 
The  swart  Columbus — into  "lands  forlorn" 

That  lay  beyond  the  dim  Hesperides; — 
Humbly  he  gathered  up  the  broken  chain 

Of  human  knowledge,  and,  with  sails  unfurled, 
He  drew  it  westward  from  the  coast  of  Spain 

And  linked  it  firmly  to  another  world. 

Tho'  blinding  tempests  drove  his  ships  astray, 

And  on  the  decks  conspiring  Spaniards  grew 
More  mutinous  and  dangerous,  day  by  day, 

Than  did  the  deadly  winds  that  round  him  blew,- 
Yet  the  bluff  Captain,  with  his  bearded  lip, 

His  lordly  purpose  and  his  high  disdain, 
Stood  like  a  master  with  uplifted  whip 

And  urged  his  mad  sea-horse  o'er  the  main. 


The  Lute  of  Life  243 

His  carvels  cut  the  billows  till  they  ground 
Upon  the  shallows  of  San  Salvador; 

Then  robed  in  scarlet  like  a  rising  morn 
He  climbed  ashore,  and  on  the  shining  sod 

He  gave  to  Man  a  continent  new-born, 
Then,  kneeling,  gave  his  gratitude  to  God. 

And  his  reward!    In  all  the  books  of  fate 

There  is  no  page  so  pitiful  as  this, — 
A  cruel  dungeon  and  a  monarch's  hate, 

And  penury  and  calumny  were  his ; 
Robbed  of  his  honors  in  his  feeble  age, 
»  Despoiled  of  glory,  the  old  Genoese 
Withdrew  at  length  from  life's  ungrateful  stage 
To  try  the  waves  of  other  unknown  seas. 


THE  EXECUTION 
(A  CHRISTMAS  TRAGEDY) 

'Twas  the  saddest  execution  we  remember  to  have  read 
Since  the  Holy  Galilean  on  the  cruel  cross-tree  bled, — 
And  like  the  dear  Redeemer,  too,  the  one  of  whom 

we  write 
Was  blameless  as  an  angel,   and   as  beauteous  and 

white ; 
His  eyes  were  blue  as  Heaven,  and  his  hair  as  bright 

as  gold 
As  it  rippled  o'er  his  temples  and  around  his  shoulders 

rolled. 

In  truth,  he  was  as  innocent  of  any  conscious  wrong 

As  the  spirits  of  the  circle  where  the  seraphim  belong ; 

His.  cheeks  were  round  and  rosy,  and  his  lips  as  free 
from  taint 

As  the  incense  that  arises  to  the  image  of  a  saint ; 

And  his  naked  feet  were  pearly  as  a  baby's  newly- 
shod 

For  the  home-returning  journey  to  the  nursery  of  God. 


244 The  Lute  of  Life 

And  though  his  heart  was  softer  than  the  down  upon 

a  dove, 

And  though  his  only  mission  was  a  ministry  of  love, 
Yet  hands  were  laid  upon  him,  and  he  was  torn  away 
Like  a  criminal  and  carried  to  a  dungeon  cold  and 

gray, 
Without  one  sympathetic  voice  to  cheer  him  as  he 

went 
Alone  into  that  awful  place  of  utter  banishment. 

No  food  was  ever  offered  him,  nor  any  kindly  tone 
Consoled  him  in  the  silence  where  he  suffered  all 

alone ;  * 

No  ministering  angel  ever  came  to  dew  his  lip 
With  a  syllable  of  mercy  or  of  sweet  companionship; 
And  yet  he  never  murmured — never  muttered,  as  he 

bore 
The  solitude  and  darkness  that  forever  brooded  o'er. 

But  finally  they  brought  him  forth,  one  stormy  winter 

night; 
They  refused  him  any  trial — they  denied  him  every 

right ; 
But  patiently  he  bore  it,  and  no  word  escaped  his 

tongue 
As  they  read  the  fatal  warrant  and  the  rope  before 

him  swung; — 

'Twas  the  saddest  execution  human  eye  did  ever  see, 
For  they  hung  him,  at  the  dead  o'  night,  upon  the — 

Christmas-tree ! 


WHEN  MAIDS  FORGET 

When  maids  forget  that  men  are  frail, 
And  men  forget  that  maids  can  veil 
Deception  with  a  siren's  sigh, — 
Look  out  for  heartaches,  by  and  by, 
For  lids  that  weep  and  lips  that  wail. 


The  Lute  of  Life 245 

The  warmest  cheeks  grow  chill  and  pale, 
And  fairest  loves  wax  faint  and  fail, 
And  purest  passions  droop  and  die, 
When  maids  forget. 

When  maids  forget  and,  thoughtless,  hail 
Some  tender  swain,  and  heed  the  tale 

That  pleads  expression  in  his  eye, — 

Beware!  the  best  of  lovers  lie, 
And  evil  arts  too  oft  prevail, 
When  maids  forget. 


DR.  JOHN  A.  WARDER 
(ARBORICULTURIST) 

His  was  the  gentle  spirit  of  the  woods, 
The  genius  of  the  tongueless  mysteries, 
Eternally  that  dwell  within  the  trees, 

The  flowers,  the  grasses,  and  the  bursting  buds; 

A  member  of  their  secret  brotherhoods, 
He  caught  the  everlasting  symphonies 
Of  all  the  lute-lipped  leaves.    He  held  the  keys 

Of  Nature's  variant  moods  and  solitudes. 

A  Druid  gray,  his  loving  life-blood  leapt 
In  transport  tremulous,  beneath  the  power 

Of  beauty  and  of  symmetry  that  slept 
Within  the  petals  of  the  frailest  flower ; 

Sweetest  of  all  the  songless  bards !  he  kept 
His  great  soul  stainless  in  his  Eden-bower. 


A  NEW  NOCTURNE 

Ho!  brother-poets,  hold  your  tongue 
About  the  birds  and  golden  grain; 

Those  idle  songs  have  all  been  sung, 
And  why  repeat  the  empty  strain? 


246 The  Lute  of  Life 

Let  hermit-thrushes  pipe  at  will, 
And  elder-blossoms  blow  and  blow, 

Such  things  can  never  truly  thrill 
The  heart  of  any  man  below. 

The  blazing  sun,  the  birds,  the  flowers, 

They  rather  mar  a  summer  stroll ; 
Give  me  the  moonlight's  cooling  hours 

With  some  sweet  comrade  of  my  soul, 
Whose  loyal  lips  like  petals  drip 

With  dewy  dreams,  amid  the  bowers, 
That  sanctify  a  fellowship 

Of  hearts  that  leap  and  love  like  ours. 


THE  SECRET 

He  stayed  at  home,  a  dreamer  still, 
Unknown   of  all — with   small  desire 

To  roam  beyond  his  native  hill, 
His  own  hearth-fire. 

A  common  toiler,  poor  and  plain, 
No  unsuspecting  eye  could  scan 

The  promise  ripening  in  the  brain 
Of  that  lone  man. 

His  lowly  life  was  like  a  cloak 

That  held  concealed  his  conscious  power, 
Till  one  bright  day  his  genius  broke 

From  bud  to  flower. 

Then  great  men  came  and  grasped  his  hand, 
And  praised  his  work,  and  called  him  wise- 

And  yet  they  could  not  understand 
His  sudden  rise. 

They  reasoned — questioned  thro'  the  dark— 
They  marveled  at  his  eminence; 


The  Lute  of  Life  247 


They  called  his  gift  "a  special  mark 
Of  Providence." 

He  smiled — and  quit  their  courtly  hall; 

He  strode  into  the  midnight  murk, 
And  sighed,  "The  secret,  after  all, 

Is  work,  work,  work." 


AN  EPISTOLARY  EXCHANGE 

[James  Whitcomb  Riley  to  James  Newton  Matthews, 
in  answer  to  a  letter  on  the  anat- 
omy of  the  sonnet.] 

O-ho!  ye  sunny,  sonnet-singin'  vagrant, 

Flauntin'  your  simmer  sangs  in  sic  a  weather! 

Ane  maist  can  straik  the  bluebells  and  the  heather 
Keekin'  aboon  the  snaw,  and  bloomin'  fragrant! 
Whiles  you,  ye  whustlin'  brither,  sic  a  lay  grant 

O'  a'  these  janglin',  wranglin'  sweets  thegither, 

I  weel  maun  perk  my  ain  doon-drappin'  feather 
And  pipe  a  wee:  Tho'  boisterous  and  flagrant 
The  winds  blaw  whuzzle-whazzle  rhymes  that  trickle 

Fra'  aff  my  tongue  less  limpid  than  I'd  ha'e  them, 
I  in  their  little  music  hap  a  mickle 

O'  canty  praises,  a'  askent  to  weigh  them 
Agen  your  pride,  and  smile  to  see  them  tickle 

The  warm  nest  o'  the  heart  wherein  I  lay  them. 

— J.  W.  R. 

MATTHEWS'  REPLY 

I  caught  your  cordial,  wayward  sonnet, 
To-day,  while  yet  the  dew  was  on  it, 
And  like  a  bee  inside  my  bonnet, 

It  keeps  a-buzzin' 
Right  merrily  o'  him  that  spun  it, 

My  rhymin'  cousin. 


248 The  Lute  of  Life 

Had  it  been  born  on  Ettrick  Hill, 

Or  bloomed  beside  some  Highland  rill — 

Had  it  been  ground  in  Burns's  mill, 

It  were  not  sweeter; 
The  scent  o'  heather's  round  it  still, 

In  rhyme  and  metre. 

I  wish  my  Muse  would  haud  her  bottle 
Somewhere  between  your  nose  and  throttle, 
And  catch  a  whiff  o'  something  that  '11 

Fire  my  fancy, 
And  shake  my  shanks,  and  swell  my  wattle 

Wi'  necromancy. 

But  then,  dear  Jamie,  ye 're  nae  saint, 

For  a'  my  laudatory  plaint; 

Ye  're  but  the  rollic  bard  and  quaint 

That  Nature  wove  ye, 
Wi'  just  enough  o'  warl'ly  taint 

To  mak'  us  love  ye. 

Good-night!  fair  end  o'  this  epistle! 

If  you  can  find  a  bane  or  gristle 

To  whet  your  tooth  on,  sir,  in  this,  I  '11 

Think  it  kind. 
Good-night !  good-night !    I  '11  wat  my  whistle, 

And  shut  the  blind. 


THE  END  OF  A  WALK 

And  now  our  pleasant  walk  must  end ; 

The  moon  is  down,  and  on  the  stream 
The  midnight's  cooling  shadows  blend 

In  darker  beauty  o'er  our  dream ; 
Like  baby  hands,  the  tender  flowers 

Are  folded  in  a  fairy  sleep, 
O'ershadowed  by  the  arching  hours 

Of  silence,  where  the  ripples  creep. 


The  Lute  of  Life  249 

We,  too,  must  rest.    To-morrow's  sun 

Will  bring  again  the  toil  and  strife, 
The  daily  duties  to  be  done, 

And  all  the  thronging  ills  of  life; 
The  lovely  day  at  last  is  gone, 

And  soon  the  morning's  beams  will  light 
The  windows  of  the  rising  dawn, 

And  we  must  part.    Good-night !  good-night ! 


IN  AN  OLD  GARDEN 

The  pickets  are  down  and  the  posts  decayed 

That  girdled  the  old  garden  plot, 
And  rust  gathers  thick  on  the  hoe  and  the  spade, 

As  they  lie  in  the  grasses  forgot; 
A  green  mold  covers  the  rickety  gate, 

Whose  hinges  are  twisted  in  two, 
And  pilfering  chickens  stray,  early  and  late, 

Where  the  carrot  and  cucumber  grew. 

The  walks  are  all  gone,  and  the  odorous  bed 

Of  the  violets  shines  no  more, 
And  the  desolate  rag-weed  lifts  its  head 

Where  the  pea-bloom  nodded  of  yore; 
A  cluster  of  catnip,  here  and  there, 

Or  a  straggling  patch  of  thyme, 
Is  all  that  is  left  of  the  garden  fair 

As  it  was  in  the  olden  time. 

The  fence  is  hidden  by  bramble  and  brier, 

Yet  still  on  the  south  side  grows 
A  sunflower  slim,  whose  eyes  never  tire 

As  they  follow  the  sun  where  he  goes ; 
A  lubberly  toad  in  a  garb  of  gray 

In  the  shade  of  a  plantain  feeds, 
While  a  hungry  garter-snake  slips  away 

Through  a  jungle  of  jimson- weeds. 


250 The  Lute  of  Life 

A  desolate  hollyhock  lifts  its  lips 

To  the  mouth  of  a  bumble-bee, 
And  one  lone  centipede  nibbles  and  nips 

The  leaves  of  a  wild-rose  tree; 
A  bevy  of  cedar-birds  swing  all  day 

On  the  mustard  boughs,  and  sing 
Of  many  a  summer  that's  passed  away 

And  many  a  vanished  spring. 

,      And  soon  this  garden  that  once  was  gay 

With  the  light  of  a  thousand  flowers, 
Will  fade  like  a  beautiful  dream  away 

From  this  mutable  world  of  ours: 
Ah,  life  itself  is  a  garden  fine, 

And  we  the  sowers  of  seeds, — 
'Tis  ours  to  fill  it  with  fruits  divine 

Or  ruin  its  soil  with  weeds. 


DR.  STEPHEN  J.  YOUNG 

[Read  at  a  banquet  given  by  his  fellow-physicians  on 
the  fifty-fifth  anniversary  of  his  gradu- 
ation in  medicine.} 

Why  come  we  here  to-night  ?    No  common  call ; 
We  see  no  shadows  creeping  on  the  wall — 

We  hear  no  muffled  footfalls  at  the  door, — 
No  cries  of  anguish  on  our  senses  fall. 

No  midnight  consultation  brings  us  here, 
We  catch  no  lamentation — see  no  tear; 

No  sombre  silence  shudders  thro'  the  hall, 
Nor  any  faces  pale  with  pain  appear. 

Nay!  like  a  ring  of  roses  overhead, 

The  laughing  lights  their  softest  lustre  shed 

Upon  a  Table  Round  of  Brotherhood, 
As  noble  as  the  knights  that  Arthur  led. 


The  Lute  of  Life 251 

And  not  unlike  the  knights  of  those  old  days, 
From  far  and  near,  we  come  to  bind  the  bays 

Around  the  brows  of  our  Sir  Galahad, 
And  star  the  chaplet  with  our  pearls  of  praise. 

For  in  the  lists  of  death  he,  too,  hath  fought 
The  pagan  multitudes, — he,  too,  hath  brought 

A  living  glory  from  the  purpling  fields 
Where  Liberty's  sublimest  work  was  wrought. 

And  in  the  ranks  of  peace,  what  man  hath  won 
To  nobler  eminence  by  fair  deeds  done 

Within  the  humbler  ways,  where  fell  disease 
Insidiously  her  loathesome  web  hath  spun? 

Not  when  wild  bugles  sang,  and  souls  were  stung 
To  acts  heroic,  where  the  flag  was  flung, 

And  men  went  down  amid  the  madd'ning  whirl 
Afrenzied,  as  the  battle-hymns  were  sung; 

But  groping  in  the  world's  dark  avenues, 
Where  sorrow  stoops  and  poverty  pursues, 

'Twas  his,  forsooth,  to  touch  life's  loos'ning  strings 
And  re-attune  them  to  accustomed  use. 

The  promises  Youth  placed  within  his  palm 
Age  hath  fulfilled, — and  now  the  blessed  calm 

Behind  the  storm  is  his, — and  on  his  head 
The  years  are  falling  like  a  gracious  balm. 

No  more  for  him  the  troubled  nights, — no  more 
The  loud  alarm  against  his  chamber-door, 

With  visions  of  the  dismal  miles  outspun 
Across  the  gloom,  as  in  the  times  of  ^yore. 

Not  any  call  to-night  will  mar  his  rest, — 
The  kind  old  head  upon  its  pillow  press'd 

Hath  won  a  laureled  respite ;  and  no  less 
Hath  won  a  love  for  which  a  king  might  quest. 


252 The  Lute  of  Life 

i 

The  knights  of  old,  themselves  foredoomed  to  fail, 
Gave  praise  when  Galahad  beheld  the  Grail; 

So,  on  the  summit  of  a  blameless  life, 
Our  comrade  of  the  Table  Round  we  hail. 

While  we  increasing  labors  still  pursue, 

He  rests  from  toil  the  tranquil  seasons  through, 

Cradled  with  memories  supremely  sweet, 
And  comforted  with  love  divinely  true. 

Of  all  the  pleasing  pictures  we  behold, 
When  days  grow  brief  and  winds  of  age  blow  cold, 
Nor  poet's  pen  nor  painter's  brush  hath  wrought 
A  fairer  one  than  Honor  growing  old. 

A  SENTIMENT 

Now  let  us  stand,  and,  while  the  song  is  sung 
Of  "Auld  Lang  Syne"  by  every  friendly  tongue, 
Strike  hands  all  round,  and  pledge  ourselves  to- 
night 
To  live  as  worthily  as  Stephen  Young. 


THE  FLOOD 

The  rain  is  on  the  window,  and  the  mold 
Is  on  the  ripening  harvest,  and  the  flood 
Is  raging  fearfully  in  field  and  wood 

And  robing  them  with  waters  manifold; 

And  helpless  farmers  shudder  to  behold 
The  fretful  demon  lapping  at  their  food 
With  lips  insatiate,  pitiless,  and  rude, 

Like  some  gaunt  wolf  that  ravages  the  fold. 
A  cry  for  bread  breaks  from  the  bottom  lands, 

From  vales  of  penury  and  dales  of  pain; 
And  in  the  rivalry  of  reaching  hands 

We  read  the  world's  response  above  the  rain : 
Ah,  Charity!  sweet  Charity!  she  stands 

With  plenished  palms  stretched  o'er  the  ruined  plain. 


The  Lute  of  Life  253 


NIGHTFALL 

The  cricket  winds  his  sultry  horn 
At  dusk  beneath  the  cool  gray  stone, 
And  from  the  windy  marsh  is  blown 

The  summer  echoes  through  the  corn. 

Amid  the  bending  chestnut  boughs 
The  katydid,  in  Lincoln-green, 
At  twilight  takes  his  tambourine 

And  sings  all  night  beside  the  house. 

A  breeze  plays  through  the  open  door, 

And  through  the  half-closed  window-bars, 
And  'neath  the  wind-kissed  moon  and  stars, 

Soft  flakes  of  argent  fleck  the  floor. 


WHEN  I  AM  OLD 

When  I  am  old, 
And  pass  into  my  dimmer  days, 

To  wither  and  repine, — 
Will  ever  minstrel  wake  my  praise, 

Or  lisp  one  lay  of  mine, — 
When  my  proud  spirit's  fires  are  cold, 
And  I  am  old? 

When  I  am  old, 
A  riveled,  wrinkled  mass  of  mold, 

And  on  my  cheerless  hearth 
I  heed  no  more  my  prattling  fold 

Nor  any  sound  of  mirth, — 
Shall  I  to  dust  go  unconsoled, 
When  I  am  old? 

When  I  am  old, 

And  seek  no  more  to  garner  gold, 
And  o'er  my  sightless  eyes 


254  The  Lute  of  Life 


The  lilies  of  the  grave  unfold 
Their  petals  to  the  skies, — 
Shall  I  be  slighted,  scorned,  cajoled, 
When  I  am  old? 

When  I  am  old, 
And  like  a  sear  leaf  on  the  wold 

Tremble  at  every  gale, — 
My  deeds,  will  they  be  imextolled ; 

My  loss,  will  none  bewail, — 
Will  Peace  her  just  rewards  withhold, 
When  I  am  old? 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  BARRINGTON  MEADOWS 

Over  the  Barrington  meadows  a  riderless  steed, 
Whiter  than  moon-down  mist,  and  swifter  of  speed 
Than  a  skirring  swallow,  cleaves  the  shimmering  light, 
Ghostlike,  galloping  ever  and  on  thro'  the  night. 

Up  from  the  Barrington  meadows  a  cold  face  peers 
For  aye  at  the  stars  and  the  winds  and  the  shifting 

years, 

While  the  low,  perpetual  sobs  of  a  woman  rim 
The  night  with  an  agony  vague  as  a  dream  and  dim. 

Over  the  Barrington  meadows,  and  on  to  the  morn, 
Go  reeling  the  Bacchanal  bats  thro'  the  blasted  corn, 
While  a  blood-red  poppy  bends  in  the  moon  and  pleads 
All  night  for  the  soul  of  one  lying  stark  in  the  reeds. 

Down  in  the  Barrington  meadows  a  dolorous  rune 
Climbs  up  thro'  the  curling  mist  to  the  marble  moon, 
And  ever  the  girdling  clouds  and  the  curdling  airs 
Are  pale  with  the  gibbering  ghosts  of  unheard  prayers. 

Down  in  the  Barrington  meadows  a  death-bird  rings 
The  ominous  sky  with  the  rush  of  invisible  wings, — 


The  Lute  of  Life  255 


And  sibilant  sighs  from  the  shuddering  grasses  rise 
Like  shrieks  of  the  doomed  at  the  bars  of  Paradise. 

Down  in  the   Barrington   meadows  the  flowers   are 

nursed 

In  the  poisonous  blood-wet  loam  of  a  land  accursed, 
And  rank  as  death  is  the  pool  at  the  root  of  the  reed, 
Where  drinks  each  night  the  wraith  of  the  flying 

steed. 

Down  in  the  Barrington  meadows  the  snake's  swift 

eyes 

Are  hot  in  the  tangled  sedge  where  the  dead  man  lies ; 
And  beetles  black  as  the  slayer's  soul,  disport 
Over  the  'crumbling  palace  where  Life  held  court ! 

Down  in  the  Barrington  meadows  a  swart  lagoon 
Chafes  under  the  guilty  scowl  of  the  pallid  moon, 
And  penitent  lilies,  drugged  with  the  dew  and  slime, 
Quake  with  the  conscious  dread  of  a  nameless  crime. 

But  the  spectral  steed  flies  on,  and  the  night-rains  beat 
Down  on  the  crumpled  heads  of  the  ruined  wheat, — 
And  strong  men  start,  aghast,  with  a  stifled  cry, 
When  the  wraithlike,  horrible  hoofs  of  the  horse  go  by. 


THE  ASHES  OF  SHELLEY 

Where  is  the  soul,  the  life,  the  fire 

That  lent  its  lustre  to  the  lyre 

So  brief  a  space  ?    Ah,  whither  strays 
That  soul  of  liberty,  whose  days 

Were  luminous  with  large  desire? 

To  what  ethereal  state  retire 
Those  passions,  barbed  with  righteous  ire, 
That  set  each  trampled  heart  ablaze — 
Where  is  the  soul? 


256  The  Lute  of  Life 


Where,  from  the  poet's  funeral  pyre, 
Escaped  those  virtues  that  inspire 
The  tongue  of  never-tiring  praise ; — 
And  do  the  spirit's  devious  ways 
Converge  to  noble  ends  and  higher, 
Where  is  the  soul? 


SHAKESPEARE 

His  soul  was  like  a  palace  wrought  of  glass, 
Star-stained  and  many-sided,  and  full-fraught 
With  all  the  fairest  flowers  of  human  thought, 

Outspread  in  one  immeasurable  mass, — 

A  garden  of  enravishments,  where  pass 
The  rapt  creations  that  his  fancy  caught 
From  realms  of  being  hitherto  unsought, 

Or  feebly  sought,  or  fruitlessly,  alas! 

He  peered  through  nature  with  a  prophet's  ken, 

He  pierced  her  secrets  with  a  poet's  eye, — 

With  passion,  power,  and  high  philosophy, 

He  set  the  spirit's  inner  gates  apart; 

He  stripped  the  shackles  from  the  souls  of  men, 
And  sacked  the  fortress  of  the  human  heart. 

The  perfect  model  of  the  perfect  mind! 

Within  the  spheric  fullness  of  his  sense, 

Within  his  kingly  soul's  circumference, 
The  image  of  the  universe  was  shrined ; 
In  lofty  utterance  his  tongue  outlined 

The  golden  orb  of  all  intelligence; 

He  touched  the  circle  of  omnipotence, 
Defining  things  no  other  e'er  defined. 
God  made  but  one !  the  rack  of  centuries, 

The  rolling  chariot  of  resistless  years, 

Leaves  unbedimmed  the  amaranth  he  wears, — 
His  fame  is  co-eternal  with  the  skies, 
His  words  are  fadeless  as  our  memories, 

His  influence  as  deathless  as  our  tears. 


The  Lute  of  Life  257 


M'CULLOUGH'S  AUTOGRAPH 

[Near  the  close  of  John  B.  McCullough's  career,  and 
after  one  of  his  most  successful  performances, 
while  the  applause  of  the  audience  was  still  thun- 
dering in  his  ears,  a  little  girl  handed  him  her  au- 
tograph album,  and  he  wrote  therein  this  signifi- 
cant line:  "Is  it  a  voice,  or  nothing,  answers  me?"] 

"Is  it  a  voice,  or  nothing,  answers  me?" 

Said  John  McCullough,   as   one  night  he  stepped 
Down  from  the  stage,  while  deaf  ning  plaudits  swept, 

From  pit  to  dome,  each  crowded  balcony; 

"Is  it  a  voice,  or  nothing?"  questioned  he, — 
And  the  hot  currents  of  his  life-blood  leapt 
Responsive  to  the  rising  shouts  that  kept 

Surging  around  him  like  a  boist'rous  sea. 

The  last  act  of  life's  tragedy,  no  doubt, 
That  moment  burst  upon  the  actor's  sight, 

And  all  the  pride  and  vanity  ebbed  out 

From  his  lone  heart,  upon  the  deep'ning  night, — 

And  all  the  passion,  all  the  hopes  of  years, 

That  instant  died,  and  left  him  to  his  tears. 


AN  EXTRAVAGANT  SIMILE 

The  prairie,  like  a  paper,  lies  unfolded  at  my  feet — 

'Tis  the  Autumn's  last  edition — 'tis  her  illustrated 
sheet — 

"Nature's  Quarterly!"  I  whisper,  as  my  roving  fancy 
reads 

The  "gossip"  of  the  golden-rods,  the  "chit-chat"  of 
the  weeds ; — 

The  "poems"  of  the  meadows,  lying  scattered  here 
and  there, 

The  "stories"  of  the  stubble,  in  full  column  every- 
where,— 

17 


258  The  Lute  of  Life 


The  "advertising"  acres,  and  the  "editorial"  plots, 
And  the  "parenthetic"  fences  round  the  "paragraphic" 
lots. 

Each  page  is  highly  colored,  and  around  the  margin 

runs 
A  forest,  like  a  ribbon,  stained  with  many  summer 

suns ; — 

The  "picture"  of  a  village  in  the  middle  column  lies, 
Whose  tinted  houses  glimmer  with  at  least  a  dozen 

dyes  ; 
And  sprinkled  o'er  the  pages,  everywhere,  in  gold  and 

green, 
The  dwellings  of  the  farmers,  with  their  strawstacks 

in  between; — 

'Tis  a  holiday  edition,  and  I  can  not  help  but  think 
It  was  stereotyped  in  Heaven,  and  God  put  on  the 

ink. 


THE  LITTLE  GIRL  THAT  COULD  NOT  CRY 

As  motionless  as  stone,  and  white 
As  marble  in  the  wan  moonlight, 
She  sat  like  one  insculptured  there, 
The  midnight  falling  on  her  hair 
In  lustrous  folds. — She  never  stirred, 
Poor  girl !  not  even  when  she  heard 
The  lonely  bells  of  Bethel  toll 
The  passing  of  her  mother's  soul: — 
She  never  wept — she  only  paled 
Like  one  whose  springs  of  life  had  failed 
And  left  her  spirit  parched  and  dry — 
The  little  girl  that  could  not  cry. 

Hour  after  hour,  her  hot  eyes  burned 
Against  a  page  she  never  turned, 
An  open  book,  wherein  she  tried 
In  vain  her  tearless  face  to  hide; 
It  were  as  if  a  bar  of  ice 


The  Lute  of  Life 259 

Had  bound  her  young  blood  like  a  vise — 

Had  blocked  and  frozen  every  vein 

In  lip  and  limb,  in  breast  and  brain, — 

And  when  the  skies  of  April  wept, 

She  closer  to  the  casement  crept, 

And  clutched  her  white  throat  with  a  sigh — 

The  little  girl  that  could  not  cry. 

The  little  girl  that  could  not  cry — 
They  took  her  forth  beneath  the  sky ; 
They  led  her  here — they  lured  her  there — 
They  braided  field-flowers  for  her  hair; 
They  told  her  stories — talked  of  birds 
And  bees  and  blossoms,  but  their  words 
Provoked  not  any  tear  or  smile; 
Her  heart  was  dead : — and  afterwhile 
The  long-expected  fever  came 
And  seared  her  body  like  a  flame, 
And  burnt  her  life  out,  by  and  by — 
The  little  girl  that  could  not  cry. 


AN  INVOCATION 

Spirit  of  Mercy!  draw  near  me,  draw  near  me, 
Lean  to  me  lovingly,  comfort  and  cheer  me, — 
Hope  have  I  none,  if  thou  deign  not  to  hear  me. 

Spirit  of  Mercy!  encompass  me,  bless  me, 

Close  to  thy  bosom  warm  clasp  me  and  press  me, 

Clothe  me  with  meekness — of  sin  dispossess  me. 

Spirit  of  Mercy !  I  reach  to  thee,  cling  to  thee, 

All  my  transgressions  I  prayerfully  bring  to  thee; — 

Humbly  my  hands,  in  my  weakness,  I  wring  to  thee. 

Spirit  of  Mercy!  uplift  and  uplead  me, 

Up-tear  from  my  pathway  the  snares  that  impede  me, 

Sustain  and  support  me  whenever  the  need  be. 


26o  The  Lute  of  Life 

Spirit  of  Mercy!  of  doubt  disarray  me, 

Dismantle  my  life  of  the  lusts  that  dismay  me, 

And  strengthen  my  soul  when  temptations  waylay  me. 

Spirit  of  Mercy!  be  nigh  to  me  ever, 
Assist  me — inspire  me  to  higher  endeavor — 
Forsake  me  and  frown  on  me  never — O  never! 

Spirit  of  Mercy!  I  kneel  to  thee,  kneel  to  thee, 
Trusting,   thro'    darkness    and    discord,    my    weal   to 

thee, — 
Queen  of  the  Angels!  thy  sweetness  unseal  to  me. 


THE  FOOLISH  MARINERS 
(FOR  THE  CHILDREN) 

They  set  us  afloat  in  a  willow  boat 

Upon  a  Northern  sea, 
And  we  drifted  on  thro'  dusk  and  dawn, 

As  merry  as  men  could  be; 
The  air  was  white  to  left  and  right, 

And  white  was  the  air  before, 
But  behind  our  bark  the  world  was  dark, 

And  we  heard  the  kraken  roar. 

As  we  passed  the  lair  of  the  Polar  bear 

We  called  aloud  to  him, 
And  he  came  to  the  door,  and  sniffed  and  swore, 

And  stroked  his  eyebrows  grim, — 
Then  buttoned  his  coat  about  his  throat, 

And  galloped  along  in  our  train 
So  far  and  fast  that  he  froze  at  last, 

And  never  got  home  again. 

We  shook  our  fist  at  the  fog  and  mist, 

All  under  the  Arctic  Zone, 
And  sailed  away,  from  day  to  day, 

So  jolly  and  cold  and  lone, — 


The  Lute  of  Life  261 


So  jolly  and  cold,  so  free  and  bold, 

A  curious  sight  were  we, 
A-sailing  away  from  day  to  day 

Upon  the  Northern  sea. 

And  roundabout  and  in  and  out, 

Wherever  the  breeze  up-blew, 
With  shout  and  song  we  swept  along, 

An  hundred  summers  through; 
Yet  day  by  day  we  all  turned  gray 

And  skinny  and  grim  and  wild, — 
But  the  captain  he,  and  the  mate  and  me, 

We  sat  and  smiled  and  smiled. 

I  smiled  at  the  mate,  and  the  captain,  straight, 

He  grinned  at  the  mate  and  me, 
And  to  lessen  the  weight  we  killed  and  ate 

The  rest  of  the  crew,  you  see; 
Then  the  captain  he  grew  fond  of  me, 

And  I  grew  fond  of  the  mate, 
And  all  together  we  killed  each  other, 

And  ate  and  ate  and  ate. 

Now,  harken  here,  my  children  dear, 

If  ever  you  put  to  sea, 
Remember  the  mate,  and  the  captain's  fate, 

And  the  end  that  came  to  me; 
Bad  luck  to  the  day  we  sailed  away 

In  search  of  the  Northern  Pole, — 
My  skeleton  lies  under  Arctic  skies, 

And  the  good  Lord  has  my  soul. 


EDISON 

Upon  a  time,  at  Menlo  Park, 
A  merry  genius  wrought 

Day  after  day,  from  dawn  to  dark, 
The  cunning  webs  of  thought ; 


262  The  Lute  of  Life 


And  as  his  nimble  fancy  drew 
The  threads  of  doubt  apart, 

Strange  fabrics  'neath  his  fingers  grew 
To  wondrous  forms  of  art. 

To  words  articulate  he  gave 

The  wings  of  wider  flight; 
He  made  the  human  voice  his  slave, 

And  robbed  the  earth  of  night ; 
Of  speech  he  caught  the  subtle  sound, 

And  treasured  it  so  clear 
That  dead  men,  lying  underground, 

May  still  be  talking  here. 

The  wizards  of  the  elder  age 

Have  dwindled  into  naught 
Beside  this  later  heritage, 

This  Heracles  of  thought; 
With  spider-energy  he  weaves 

The  gossamers  that  bind, 
Through  every  land,  in  richer  sheaves, 

The  hearts  of  all  mankind. 


THE  BURDEN  OF  BABYLON 

O  Babylon,  O  Babylon! 
The  Lord  hath  made  His  purpose  known ; 
His  anger,  like  a  seething  sea, 
Swells  at  thy  gate, 
And  Sodom's  fate 
Alas,  proud  city,  is  reserved  for  thee. 

O  Babylon,  O  Babylon! 
Soon,  soon,  thy  glory  shall  be  gone; 
Beneath  thy  godless  roofs  shall  run 
E'en  the  warm  blood 
Of  motherhood, 
And  none  escape  His  vengeance — nay,  not  one ! 


The  Lute  of  Life  263 

O  Babylon,  O  Babylon! 
Never  again  as  years  go  on 
Shall  shepherds  fold  their  flocks  by  thee; 
Nor  Arab  pitch 
His  tent,  nor  hitch 
His  camel  by  thy  cool  pomegranate  tree. 

O  Babylon,  O  Babylon! 
The  winds  shall  o'er  thy  ruins  moan; 
Within  thy  desolated  halls 
Shall  flit  the  owl, 
And  wild  beasts  prowl, 
And  dancing  satyrs  hold  their  carnivals. 


THE  SOLDIER  OF  CASTILE 

It  was  afternoon  in  Madrid,  during  Isabella's  reign, 
When  Ristori  was  playing  in  the  capital  of  Spain, 
That  Nicholas  Chapado,  a  Castilian  soldier,  lay 
Within  a  dungeon,  doomed  to  die  at  breaking  of  the 

day;— 
A  beardless  boy  and  beautiful,  with  gentle  voice  and 

eye, 
For  some  offense  of  discipline  a  felon's  death  must 

die; 
No  pleading  sister's  upturned  face — no  mother's  fond 

appeal, 
No  sweetheart's  eloquence,  could  save  the  soldier  of 

Castile ; 
And  so  a  black-robed  bellman,  as  the  custom  was,  went 

down 
Collecting  alms  in  all  the  streets  and  byways  of  the 

town, — 
Collecting  alms  to  pay  the  priest  to  lift  his  voice  on 

high 
In  supplication  for  the  soul  of  him  who  had  to  die. 


264  The  Lute  of  Life 

The  great  Italian  actress,  standing  at  her  window  high, 
Saw  the  ghostly  bellman  ringing,  and  she  turned  and 

questioned  "Why?" 

And  when  a  Spanish  cavalier  responded  with  the  tale, 
The  listening  woman  shuddered  and  her  cheeks  grew 

chill  and  pale, 
Then,  turning  from  the  casement,  where  the  sunlight 

softly  fell, 
She  saw  no  more  the  bellman  and  she  heard  no  more 

the  bell ; 

She  only  saw  in  fancy  from  a  dungeon  bare  and  gray 
A  lad  led  forth  to  slaughter,  at  the  breaking  of  the 

day — 
A  brave  boy  rudely  ushered  from  a  prison's  rime  and 

rot 

To  the  sunshine  of  the  city,  for  an  instant,  to  be  shot ; 
And  her  great  heart  sank  within  her,  and  her  soul 

in  sobs  escaped, 
As  she  thought — the  mimic  empress — of  the  tragedies 

she  aped. 

And  now  'twas  night  in  Maduid,  and  the  Zarzuela 

shone 

With  oriental  opulence,  and  splendor  all  its  own; 
The  bended  balconies  above  blazed  like  a  triple  chain 
That  belted  in  the  beauty  and  the  chivalry  of  Spain; 
Proud  Isabella  from  her  box  looked  out  with  haughty 

grace, 
While  the  passions  of  a  race  of  kings  were  pulsing  in 

her  face; 
Anon,  amidst  a  clash  of  bells,  and  'midst  the  crowd's 

acclaim, 

The  pale  Italian  sorceress  before  the  footlights  came; 
A  glory  fell  about  her,  as  her  tragic  spirit  played 
On  the  passions  of  the  Spaniards,  in  their  royal  pomp 

arrayed ; 
She  tranced  them  with  her  tenderness — she  touched 

them  as  with  steel — 
She  broke  a  pathway  to  the  coldest  heart  in  old  Castile. 


The  Lute  of  Life 265 

'Twas  midnight,  and  the  play  was  done — the  closing 

curtain  fell, 

And  Ristori  was  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  Isabelle — 
Lo!  the  mimic  queen  was  pleading  with  an  eloquence 

unknown, 

For  Nicholas  Chapado,  to  the  queen  upon  the  throne ; 
All  motionless  and  silent  stood  the  swarthy  cavaliers, 
Their  bosoms  wrung  with  pity,  as  they  leaned  upon 

their  spears; 
'Twas  the  picture  of  a  passion — 'twas   a  priestess 

of  her  art, 
At  the  feet  of  Mercy  kneeling,  with  her  pleading  lips 

apart ; 
'Twas  a  woman's  heart  appealing — 'twas  resistless 

as  the  seas, 
Or  the  rushing  North  that  hurtles  down  the  snowy 

Pyrenees ; 
The  haughty  Queen  was  conquered — and  that  night 

the  links  of  steel 
Fell,  broken  at  her  bidding,  from  the  soldier  of  Castile. 


TO  STEPHEN 

Ah,  Stephen,  my  dear,  with  delight  I  recall 

The  many  glad  moments  we've  spent, 
When  Youth  filled  the  bumper,  and  Fate  kicked  the 
ball, 

And  Hope  her  sweet  blandishments  lent; 
'Twas  a  dream  of  ambition  enticed  us  to  toil 

In  the  vineyards  of  classical  lore, — 
But  Latin  roots  failed  to  take  hold  in  the  soil, 

And  we  voted  old  Euclid  a  bore. 

At  college  we  gathered  some  facts  by  degrees, 

But  the  de'il  a  degree  did  we  get; 
So  we  flew  to  our  cups  and  went  half-over-seas, 

On  occasions  we  fain  would  forget; 
A  crowd  of  gay  fellows,  aye,  thronged  at  our  board, 


266 The  Lute  of  Life 

And  loud  rang  the  night  with  their  glee, 
Till  the  wine  cut  them  down,  in  great  swaths,  like  a 

sword, 
Sparing  only  my  comrade  and  me. 

There  was  Pollock  of  Vernon,  and  Charley  the  proud, 

And  Alfred,  the  prince  of  them  all; 
They  have  vanished  away,  like  a  dream  or  a  cloud, 

And  will  gather  no  more  at  our  call ; 
Ah,  Stephen,  again  to  the  brim  fill  your  glass, 

Let  us  drink  to  the  days  that  are  gone, 
To  the  cronies  we  loved,  and  each  merry-eyed  lass, 

In  the  jolly  good  times  that  have  flown. 

Then  luck  to  each  other!  for  bleak  is  the  way, 

And  rough  is  the  road  we  must  go ; 
The  cart  that  we  built,  we  must  ride  on  to-day, 

And  catch  the  rude  blasts  as  they  blow; 
So  patch  we  at  once  every  hole  in  our  coat, 

And  button  our  frocks  to  the  chin, 
And  take  the  grim  hounds  of  bad  luck  by  the  throat, 

Ere  the  winter  of  life  closes  in. 


PLAINT  OF  THE  PESSIMIST 

• 

Life's  but  the  magical  web  of  a  minute, 

And  man  but  the  tragical  fly  that's  caught  in  it. 

For  one  flash  of  sunlight  and  one  whiff  of  flowers, 
An  aeon  of  moonlight  and  midnight  is  ours. 

The  good  that  we  dare  do  will  soon  be  forgot, 
But  the  guilt  we  are  heir  to  abandons  us  not. 

Some  will  be  foe  to  us,  some  will  be  friend, 
But  evil  will  flow  to  us,  down  to  life's  end. 


The  Lute  of  Life 267 

We  toil  till  our  fingers  wear  brittle,  and  find 

In  the  end  there  but  lingers  small  peace  for  the  mind. 

We  seek  El  Doradoes  of  respite  from  pain, 

But  our  search  'mid  the  shadows  that  veil  them  is  vain. 

We  dream  of  bright  gardens  where  rest  is,  but,  nay ! 
The  hopeless  soul  hardens  within  its  cold  clay. 

We  stand  on  a  marge  of  a  mighty  endeavor, 
But  never  enlarge  to  our  fullest — no,  never! 

If  joy  were  designed  us,  how  seldom  we  rise 

From  the  troubles  that  bind  us,  to  bask  in  its  eyes. 

With  weary  palms  reaching  far  out  in  the  night, 
Our  lips  are  beseeching  in  vain  for  more  light. 

Our  life  is  a  riddle,  unraveled,  unkenned, 

With  grief  in  the  middle  and  groans  at  each  end. 

From  the  crib  to  the  coffin  we  grope  through  the 

gloom, 
And  our  doubts  trickle  off  in  the  trough  of  the  tomb. 

When  we're  gone  to  the  islands  of  night,  none  will 

weep 
In  the  shadow  and  silence  that  over  us  creep. 

On  the  hearth  will  the  cricket  his  ditty  still  grate, 
And  the  thrush  in  the  thicket  bewail  not  our  fate. 

Is  the  death  we  descend  to  as  dreadful,  as  drear, 
As  the  fancies  we  lend  to  its  terrors  while  here? 

Is  the  grave-worm  more  kind  to  the  dead  priest,  I  pray, 
Than  the  pagan,  who,  blind  to  the  truth,  went  astray  ? 


268  The  Lute  of  Life 

On  the  road  that  tipruns  to  the  clouds  from  the  clods, 
Shall  we  climb  to  the  suns  and  the  saints  and  the  gods? 

• 

If  the  Suicide's  knives  cut  the  cords  of  our  cares, 
Do  we  not  yield  our  lives  to  still  sterner  despairs? 

The  back  Atlantean  sinks  under  the  strain 
Of  the  sins  that  we  see  in  this  planet  of  pain. 

O  Thou  who  hast  made  us  so  frail,  unforgiving — 
Have  mercy,  persuade  us  that  life  is  worth  living. 


TO  A  BIRD  ON  THE  TELEGRAPH  WIRE 

O  wild-bird  sweet! 
What  wonderful  tidings  are  these, 
Flying  under  the  palms  of  thy  feet? 

Tell  me,  please, 

What  news  throbs  under  thy  tremulous  toes, 
Little  bird,  up  there  where  the  warm  wind  blows  ? 

O  blithe,  brave  bird ! 
What  rumor  of  battle  now  speeds 
On  the  lip  of  the  lightning  weird? 

What  startling  deeds 
Done  on  the  land  or  the  sea,  I  pray, 
Are  told  by  the  wires  to  the  world  to-day? 

O  beauteous  bird, — 

Stealing  the  secrets  that  hourly  stream 
Out  of  the  heart  of  the  world  deep-stirred ! 

(Do  I  but  dream, 

In  fancying  thee,  little  bird,  the  ghost 
Of  some  old  message,  love-sent  and  lost?) 


The  Lute  of  Life 269 

O  wild-bird  sweet — 
Singing  away  in  thy  sapphire  coat! 
Surely  the  song  runs  in  at  thy  feet 

And  out  at  thy  throat, 
Thrilling  the  twittering  tribes  of  the  air 
With  gossip  and  scandal  from  everywhere. 

O  wretched  bird! 
How  sad  must  thy  little  heart  be, 
Hearing  of  agonies  yet  unheard 

By  all  save  thee, — 
Pecking  the  bulletins  out  of  the  wires 
When  an  empire  falls  or  a  king  expires. 

O  silent  bird, — 

Musing  alone  on  the  mumbling  line 
Till  thy  soul  is  sick  and  thy  bright  eyes 

With  tears  like  mine,  [blurred 

For  a  world  grown  foul  with  folly  and  sin 
And  death, — as  the  years  creep  out  and  in. 

Sweet  bird,  away! 
Fly  to  the  east — fly  to  the  west — 
Fly  to  the  uttermost  verge  of  day; 

Fly! — nor  rest 

Till  the  leaning  lips  of  the  desert  kiss 
Each  thought  away  of  a  race  like  this. 


A  HINT  OF  OLD  AGE 

They  say  that  my  mustache  is  gray, 

That  I  at  last  am  getting  old; 
They  hint  that  I  have  had  my  day, 

And  that  my  heart  is  growing  cold ; 
That  in  the  circles  of  the  young 

My  ways  are  sadly  out  of  place, 
That  all  the  gladness  of  my  tongue 

Is  contradicted  by  my  face. 


270 The  Lute  of  Life 

Behind  their  fans  the  ladies  smile, 

And  with  satiric  glances  say: 
"Was  it  at  Luxor  on  the  Nile 

They  dug  this  mummy  up,  I  pray?" 
And  when  to  jest  I  fain  would  try, 

There  falls  a  deep  sepulchral  gloom- 
A  silence,  broken  by  a  sigh 

From  some  far  corner  of  the  room. 


TO  MAURICE  THOMPSON 

[/  should  like  to  see  the  pollen  of  Earth's  first  flowers 
upon  my  shoes. — "BIRDS  OF  THE  ROCKS."] 

Bard  of  the  wildwoods  and  the  summer  hours ! 

Pray,  why  proclaimest  thou  a  wish  so  fogy — 
"To  see  the  pollen  of  Earth's  primal  flowers 

Down-pattering  upon  thy  polished  stoga"? 
O  fie,  Maurice !  it  puzzles  me  to  know 
How  very  palaeozoic  one  can  grow. 

Poet,  I  see  thee  in  my  fancy  now, 

A  million  years  before  the  Ages  Classic, 

In  ambush  on  some  mountain's  beetling  brow, 
Hurling  thine  arrows  at  the  birds  Jurassic, 

Or  meditating  'midst  the  rocks  forlorn  as 

The  widowed  offspring  of  an  Ichthyornis. 

Methinks  I  see  thee,  with  thy  caudal  ap- 
Pendage  and  thy  skin  mahogany, 

Proclaiming  to  the  world  with  much  clap-trap 
The  infant  art  of  ichthyophagy, 

Or,  in  a  discourse  wholly  orniscopical, 

Presaging  quail-on-toast  in  language  tropical. 

Again,  I  hear  thee  poetizing  in 

Numbers  so  sweet  and  megalophonous, 
The  playful  Pterodactyl  shakes  his  fin 


The  Lute  of  Life 271 

With  intonations  most  segophonous, 
While  Megatheriums  their  music  mix 
With  thine,  and  with  the  Archseopteryx. 

Spellbound  I  stand,  listening  with  eager  ear 
The  pretty  piping  of  thy  notes  ornithic, 

Until  the  present  times,  somehow,  appear 
All  intertangled  with  the  times  pre-mythic — 

Until,  in  fact,  I  have  a  vague  suspicion 

That  tail-suspension  is  our  true  position. 

O  thou  who  wouldst  with  archaeologic  lore 
Inspire  our  fancies  and  illumine  us, 

Pardon  me,  if  too  rashly  I  explore 
Thy'  genealogy   quadrumanous, 

And  find  within  the  prehistoric  chasm 

A  monkey  floating  in  thy  protoplasm. 


PATRICK  HENRY  CRONIN 
(MURDERED  IN  CHICAGO,  MAY  4,  1889) 

He  was  my  friend!     To-night  I  sit 
And  think  of  him  whose  sad  fate  stirs 
The  pity  of  two  hemispheres 

With  horror,  as  they  speak  of  it. 

He  was  my  friend!    In  other  years 
I  hailed  him  as  a  soul  refined, 
A  college  brother,  brave  and  kind, 

Impulsive,  tender,  quick  to  tears. 

Poor  man!    He  stood  upon  the  side 
Of  justice,  with  the  feeble  few, 
Who,  having  tried  him,  found  him  true 

And  fearless — and  for  this  he  died. 

All  lamblike  to  the  slaughter-pen 
They  lured  him  with  the  lying  cry 


272 The  Lute  of  Life 

Of  mercy — led  him  forth  to  die, 
At  midnight,  in  the  dragon's  den. 

Another  victim  of  the  bold, 

Unblushing  vallainy  that  waits, 
Red-handed,  at  old  Erin's  gates, 

And  barters  Irish  blood  for  gold. 

The  whole  world's  hot,  indignant  eyes 
Are  fixed  on  this,  the  foulest  crime 
Recorded  in  our  land  and  time — 

A  deed  whose  horror  multiplies. 

O  fair-famed  city  of  the  lake, 

Awake,  and  let  not  any  stain 

Of  this  last  butchery  remain 
On  thy  white  garments,  for  God's  sake. 

O  Justice,  with  thy  lightning  smite 
The  few  or  many — high  or  low — 
Who  dealt,  or  who  inspired  the  blow 

That  stunned  the  Christian  world  that  night. 


CONTRADICTION 

I  know  a  girl  whose  lip  denies 
The  love  that  sparkles  in  her  eyes, — 
Whose  harshest  words  to  music  dance 
If  but  accompanied  by  her  glance ; 
A  girl  whose  heart,  against  her  will, 
In  her  dark  orbs  is  pleading  still ; 
Who  can  not  hide,  tho'  hard  she  try, 
The  wooing  language  of  her  eye. 

How  strange  a  fate  is  this  we  see, 
When  lips  and  eyes  no  more  agree ! 
When  softest  glances  dull  the  dart 
Of  bitterness  that  words  impart; 


The  Lute  of  Life  273 


And  yet,  were  I  the  trembling  swain 
That  languished  in  this  girl's  disdain, 
No  hope  within  my  breast  would  die 
While  love  stood  laughing  in  her  eye. 


MY  MUSE 

Not  in  the  crowded  mart  and  sordid  street, 

I  seek  communion  with  the  Lyric  Muse; 
Not  in  cathedral  walls,  with  sandaled  feet, 

Where  organs  pipe  their  melodies  abstruse, 
And  surpliced  priests  their  hollow  altars  beat 

With  maledictions  poured  upon  the  Jews; 
Not  in  the  pit  where  guilty  pleasures  meet 

To  proffer  vanity  her  nightly  dues, 
But  rather  in  the  rippling  fields  of  wheat 

And  in  the  windy  meadow-lands,  I  choose 
To  chase  the  footsteps  of  the  damsel  fleet 

And  win  her  graces  with  some  happy  ruse; 
O,  I  would  woo  her  as  a  lover  wooes, 

With  soul  persistent  and  with  sapphic  heat, 
Till,  drunk  with  kisses,  she  could  not  refuse 

To  breathe  into  my  strain  her  spirit  sweet. 


MY  NAMESAKE 

[A  song  to  the  son  of  my  poet-friend,  Alonzo  H. 
Davis,  of  Omaha.] 

A  strangely  tender  feeling  stirs 

My  bosom  when  I  think  of  him, 
Who  knows  me  not,  and  little  cares 

If  I  be  Jack  or  Jill  or  Jim; 

In  dreams,  I  let  him  splash  and  swim, 
In  lakes  of  love,  around  my  knee, 

Nor  deign  to  cross  his  slightest  whim — 
The  boy  Lon  Davis  named  for  me. 
18 


274 The  Lute  of  Life 

O,  if  his  eyes  be  blue  or  black 

Or  brown — I  care  not  anything; 
If  any  courtliness  he  lack, 

It  matters  not — he  is  my  king! 

For  him  I  seize  my  harp  and  sing — 
I  bide  his  will,  whate'er  it  be, 

And  staunchly  to  his  standard  cling — 
The  boy  Lon  Davis  named  for  me. 

Come,  fill  a  bumper  to  the  brim 

To  him,  high-priest  of  bibs  and  toys — 
Come,  join  a  health  with  Uncle  Jim 

To  that  crown-prince  of  baby  boys; 

From  Omaha  to  Illinois 
We  '11  flute  his  praises  full  and  free, 

Till  he  on  honor's  height  shall  poise — 
The  boy  Lon  Davis  named  for  me. 


TO  THEOPHILUS  VAN  DERAN 

O  silent  partner  in  the  House  of  Fame, 
Theophilus!    I  venerate  thy  name, — 
Thy  name,  itself  the  mirror  of  thy  mind, 
God-lover,  and  the  lover  of  mankind ! 
Happy  art  thou,  among  thy  flocks  and  fields, 

Gray  pilgrim  of  Parnassus!  piping  still 
With  all  the  potency  experience  yields 

To  poet-passion  touched  with  native  skill. 

Two  gifts  alone  I  envy  thee,  old  man, 
Thy  peace  idyllic,  and — the  pipe  of  Pan! 
And  gladly  would  I  share  thy  snowy  age 
Could  I  claim,  too,  thy  soul's  bright  heritage. 
Thy  life  has  been  the  life  of  one  inspired, 

A  cycle  of  soft  nights  and  sunny  days, — 
Far  from  the  turmoil  of  the  world  retired, 

Alike  unconscious  if  it  blame  or  praise. 


The  Lute  of  Life  275 

Van  Deran!  ere  the  sable  angel  drips 
The  dews  of  death  upon  thy  lids  and  lips, 
I  fain  would  trace,  with  all  the  skill  I  can, 
My  high  regard  for  thee  as  bard  and  man. 
Thine  is  the  poet's  doom !    To  live  unknown, 

To  charm  the  world  a  season,  and  to  die — 
To  sink  in  slumber  by  the  wayside  stone, 

Forgotten,  as  the  trampling  tribes  go  by. 


SONNETS  TO  THE  RIVER  W 

YESTERDAY 

Out  from  the  shadow-land  a  river  came, 
Long,  long  ago,  a  river  fair  and  fleet, 
Thro'  many  a  mazy  glen  and  dim  retreat, 

And  many  a  haunted  wild,  whose  Indian  name 

Flashed  on  our  fancy  like  a  subtle  flame, 

In  those  far  days  of  boyhood,  when  our  feet 
Fled  twinkling  down  the  sunburnt  sands  to  meet 

The  rushing  waters  that  no  hand  could  tame. 

The  never-ending  summers  o'er  us  blew 
A  breath  of  Eden,  and  the  days  were  long ; 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will,"  saith  the  song, 

And  all  things,  then,  in  mellow  glory  grew ; 
Love's  face  lay  warm  against  the  wooing  lip 
Of  Nature  in  that  first  companionship. 

TO-DAY 

Still  flows  the  river,  but  the  shadow-land 
Long,  long  ago  has  vanished,  and  no  more 
The  darkling  wild  and  fairy-haunted  shore 

Before  our  visions  blossom  and  expand; 

Only  a  coiling  reach  of  wrinkled  sand, 
A  treeless  stream — an  empty  dream  of  yore — 
No  more,  no  more,  the  birds  of  morning  pour 

Their  songs  along  the  summer-kirtled  strand. 


276 The  Lute  of  Life 

The  hills  grow  dark,  and  dark  the  after-days 
To  us  who  linger  out  the  lonesome  years ; 

In  vain  we  wander  down  the  vales  to  find 
The  golden  dawns  and  old  familiar  ways 
That  knew  not  any  stress  of  toils  nor  tears, 
Nor  any  voice,  in  all  the  world,  unkind. 


WHEN  REUBEN  WAS  MY  BEAU 
(AN  IDYL  OF  THANKSGIVING) 

Yes,  I  was  but  a  little  tot  of  fifteen  years  or  so, 

A  rosy,  romping  country  girl,  and  Reuben  was  my 
beau, — 

My  first  and  only  sweetheart,  whose  father's  farm 
and  ours 

Shook  hands  across  a  shady  lane  between  two  fields 
of  flowers; — 

And  we  were  wayward  as  the  winds  that  wandered 
o'er  the  wild, 

For  Reuben  was  an  only  son  and  I  an  only  child, — 

And  our  truant  spirits  twinkled  with  a  temper  so  in- 
tense 

We  were  ever  quick  to  quarrel,  as  a  natural  conse- 
quence : 

We  wrangled  every  morning  on  the  road  to  school, 
and  then 

At  evening  by  the  pasture  bars  we  made  it  up  again : — 

O,  the  skies  were  bright  as  banners  spread  above  us, 
long  ago, 

And  everything  was  beautiful — when  Reuben  was  my 
beau. 

The  summers  wafted  o'er  the  hills  like  strains  of  music 

blown 
From  fairy  lips  in  fairy-land,  and  all  the  world  was 

sown 
With  syllables  of  laughter,  intermingled  everywhere 


The  Lute  of  Life  277 

With  the  trill  of  birds  and  fluttering  of  pinions  down 

the  air. 
The  nights  were  soft  and  starry  as  the  dreams  that 

drifted  through 
The  gateways  of  my  girlish  heart  when  loving  yet  was 

new,  — 

When  life  was  so^enchanting,  so  entrancing  to  my  eye, 
I  saw  no  shadow  on  the  earth,  no  cloud  in  all  the  sky  ; 
My  hopes  were  as  the  morning  ere  the  dew  was  kissed 

away, 

Nor  any  trace  of  trouble  ever  darkened  on  my  day  ; 
One  thought  alone  possessed  my  heart,  wherever  I 

might  go,  — 
One  sweet,  delicious  dream  of  love,  when  Reuben  was 

my  beau, 


And  so  the  rosy  months  ran  by,  until  a  dreadful  day 
Broke  on  the  world,  and  all  the  gold  of  life  was  turned 

to  gray  ;— 
A  dull  Thanksgiving  morning  laid  its  dim  light  at  our 

door, 
When  Reuben  came  up,  glowing,  in  a  garb  unworn 

before, 
With  strange  bright  buttons  on  his  breast,  like  little 

moons  and  stars, 
While  at  his  elbows  and  his  wrists  were  braided  bands 

and  bars, 
And  all  his  form,  from  head  to  foot,  was  clad  in  deep- 

est blue. 
Ah,  me!  I  sighed  and  shivered  there,  in  silence,  for 

I  knew 
The  breath  of  war  had  wooed  him,  as  the  bravest  then 

were  wooed, 
And  had  fanned  to  flame  the  fervor  of  his  hot,  heroic 

blood  ;  — 
A  clasp  of  hands-1—  a  clinging  kiss  —  and  then  a  night 

of  woe 
Fell  on  me  like  the  wing  of  death  —  for  Reuben  was 

my  beau. 


278 The  Lute  of  Life 

The  years  are  many  since  that  morn,  and  I  am  grow- 
ing gray ; 

For  me  the  bells  are  welcoming  their  last  Thanks- 
giving Day; 

The  fire  of  life  within  my  breast  has  almost  ceased 
to  burn, 

And  I  shall  never  live  to  see  the  dreary  day  return. 

The  rain  is  falling  on  the  fields — the  dull  November 
rain — 

And  on  a  martyr's  nameless  grave,  where  all  my  hopes 
are  lain; 

Far,  far  from  here,  in  some  strange  land,  beneath 
the  Southern  pine, 

They  laid  the  ashes  that  were  his — the  dead  heart  that 
was  mine.  ^ 

The  shady  lane  still  runs  between  his  father's  farm 
and  ours, 

But  the  fields  lie  cold  against  the  winds,  and  vanished 
are  the  flowers. 

Sometimes  I  drive  the  cows  home  from  the  pasture 
bars  below, 

And  I  live  again  the  dear  old  days  when  Reuben  was 
my  beau. 


A  VALENTINE 

Tho'  hill  and  vale  with  music  ring, 
And  mating  birds  be  on  the  wing, 
To-day  I  have  no  heart  to  sing, — 
My  Margerie  no  longer  hears, 
She  smiles  not  now,  nor  heeds  my  tears, 
She  wakes  not  with  the  waking  spring, 
She  conies  not  with  returning  years. 

As  sink  the  snow-flakes  in  the  sea, 
Loved  Margerie,  lost  Margerie, 
My  thoughts  concenter  all  in  thee; 
To-day  the  softest,  subtlest  note 


The  Lute  of  Life 279 

That  trembles  from  the  throstle's  throat, 
Stirs  not  the  slightest  pulse  in  me, — 
My  dreams  are  of  a  day  remote. 

The  lute  lies  silent  on  my  knee, 

I  touch  no  more  the  trembling  key 

That  thrilled  the  heart  of  Margerie; 
Those  eyes  where  truth  and  passion  met, 
Love's  planets,  in  the  grave  have  set, 

And  left  this  heritage  to  me, 
A  memory — a  fond  regret. 


AT  STORM  LAKE 

O  the  summer  days  at  Storm  Lake, 

Like  dreams  they  follow  me, 
And  taunt  me  with  the  beauty 

Of  a  time  no  more  to  be; 
O  dewy  days  that  blossomed 

In  the  garden  of  the  past, 
And  died   away  in  melody 

Too  exquisite  to  last! 
O  rosy  days,  still  whispering 

Of  joys  that  glittered  by, 
When  the  warbling  waters  listened 

To  the  wooing  of  the  sky, 
When  the  climbing  vines  were  garmented 

In  gowns  of  living  green, 
And  the  fickle  fountains  dallied 

With  the  flowers  in  between — 
At  Storm  Lake. 

O  the  summer  nights  at  Storm  Lake — 

They  hover  round  my  heart 
Like  a  troop  of  fairy  visitants, 

Reluctant  to  depart; 


28o The  Lute  of  Life 

They  carol  of  the  starlight, 

And  mingle  their  refrain 
With  the  old  caressing  cadence 

Of  a  stroll  in  Lover's  Lane; 
They  babble  to  my  memory 

Of  silver  sails  that  fled 
Like  dreams  across  the  waters, 

When  the  moon  was  overhead; 
Ah,  they  sing  across  the  silences, 

This  dreary  winter  day, 
Of  the  tenderness  and  splendor 

Of  the  summer  flown  away — 
At  Storm  Lake. 

0  the  summer-time  at  Storm  Lake — 
It  rises  to  my  eyes 

Like  a  half-remembered  legend 

Of  a  day  in  Paradise; 
It  quivers  in  my  fancy 

So  deliriously  sweet, 
That  it  crumbles  into  odors 

Of  remembrance  at  my  feet; 
And  often  in  my  daily  toils, 

And  in  my  nightly  dreams, 

1  wander  back  to  Storm  Lake, 
Where  the  mellow  moonlight  beams, 

And  hear  again  from  laughing  lips, 
And  read  in  laughing  eyes, 

The  story  that  is  ever  sweet, 
Though  not  forever  wise, 
At  Storm  Lake. 


JOHN  PETTIJOHN 

John  Petti  John!  John  Pettijohn! 
No  matter  how  the  years  go  on — 
No  matter  how  Old  Time  shall  trace 
His  furrows  on  your  honest  face — 


The  Lute  of  Life  281 


No  matter  how  your  eyes  may  pale, 
Your  strength  of  body  faint  and  fail, 
Your  heart,  thick-lined  with  love's  own  gold, 
Can  not  grow  old — can  not  grow  old. 

John  Petti  John!  John  Petti  John! 
You  stand  against  the  falling  sun 
Like  some  o'er-towering  pine,  that  turns 
The  lightning  when  the  hot  bolt  burns 
A  path  of  death  along  the  land, — 
Unscathed  amidst  the  storm  you  stand, 
Truth's  image,  lordly  to  behold — 
God's  favorite,  who  ne'er  grows  old. 

John  Petti  John!  John  Petti  John! 
To-day  we  speak  your  praise  alone ; 
Not  any  knight  of  Arthur's  time, 
Nor  any  king  of  any  clime, 
Can  stir  the  soul  to  song  like  you, 
O  priest  of  Honor,  tried  and  true, — 
Like  you,  who,  as  the  years  blow  cold, 
Can  grow  not  old — can  grow  not  old. 

John  Petti  John!  John  Petti  John! 
God  shield  you  till  the  race  be  run, — 
Around  you  like  a  wall  of  fire 
We  stand,  to  reverence  and  admire; 
We  wait  your  bidding — ready  still 
To  drink  your  wisdom,  do  your  will, — 
Still  hoping,  as  the  years  unfold, 
The  heart  we  love  will  not  grow  old. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  BABY 

Like  a  bird  flying  out  of  its  prison, 

Light-winged  and  alone, 
The  soul  of  wee  Robbie  is  risen, 

And  heavenward  flown. .. 


282 The  Lute  of  Life 

Flown  heavenward  out  of  its  anguish, 

Sweet  motherless  one! 
Flown  heavenward  never  to  languish 

As  time  weareth  on. 

As  out  of  a  lily's  pale  chalice 

The  odor  is  blown, 
So,  forth  from  the  soul's  snowy  palace 

The  life-light  is  gone. 

As  soft  as  the  tinges  of  twilight 

Out-fade  from  the  west, 
The  baby  sank  into  the  skylight 

Of  infinite  rest. 

No  longer  his  pink  baby-fingers 

Outrival  the  flowers, 
No  longer  his  baby-laugh  lingers 

And  melts  into  ours. 

The  cradle  is  empty  and  hollow 

Forever  and  aye, 
The  flight  of  wee  Robbie  we'll  follow 

When  beckoned  away. 

SHE  SLEEPS 

'Twas  summer's  noon!     One  I  had  known 

Lay  stark  upon  her  lily  bed; 
And  one  I  knew  not,  wept  alone 

Beside  the  lady  lying  dead; — 
The  lady  with  the  long  brown  hair, 

And  lucent  eyes  of  Heaven's  own  blue, — 
A  lady  fair  and  debonaire 

As  e'er  was  given  man  to  woo. 

He  wept  for  eyes  that  ne'er  again 

Would  lift  their  love-light  to  his  own — 

His  tears  fell  like  the  autumn  rain, 
O'er  days  of  joy  forever  flown; 


The  Lute  of  Life  283 


He  wept  as  one  might  weep  who  stands 

Outside  the  pale  of  Paradise, 
When  some  sweet  saint  with  pleading  hands 

Floats,  dreamlike,  o'er  his  tranced  eyes. 

He  wept  the  tender  heart  and  true, 

That  fell  to  dust  before  his  eye — 
He  wept  as  knightly  spirits  do, 

O'er  all  the  beauty  that  can  die ; 
He  wept  to  hear  his  orphans  cry 

Amid  the  gloom  the  long  night  through, — 
He  wept  until  his  soul  was  dry, 

Then  slept — and  woke  to  weep  anew. 

And  -in  and  out  the  people  drew, 

And  much  they  marveled — much  they  praised 
The  lady's  loveliness,  whereto 

Death's  awful  signet  had  been  placed; 
And  kinsmen  from  the  fair  land  round 

Came  in  with  weeping  lids  and  lips, 
And  round  the  marble  mother  bound 

Their  garlands, — love's  Apocalypse ! 

She's  gone  into  the  silent  land, 

She's  faded  from  this  world  of  ours, — 
Where  summer's  golden  skies  expand, 

She's  folded  in  a  realm  of  flowers; 
She  sleeps — the  fair  young  mother  sleeps, — 

No  words  of  ours,  no  cries,  no  tears, 
Can  pierce  the  dull  grave's  gloomy  deeps, 

Thro'  all  the  intervital  years. 

She  sleeps, — nor  any  dreams  hath  she, — 

The  tides  may  ebb,  the  tides  may  flow ; 
Where  once  she  was,  she  ne'er  can  be, 

While  round  the  world  the  wild  winds  blow; 
She  sleeps — God  rest  her  where  she  lies! 

Until  the  gates  of  dawn  unbar, 
Then  give  her  spirit  strength  to  rise 

To  life  in  some  sublimer  star! 


284  The  Lute  of  Life 


UPON  HER  WRIST 

Upon  her  wrist  a  pea-green  parrot  sways, 
Pecking  her  pearly  finger-tips,  the  while 
Her  proud  mouth  quivers  like  a  tropic  isle 

Round  which  a  summer-sea  of  passion  plays. 

Poor  Polly!  if  my  idle  tongue  betrays 
A  trace  of  envy  at  thy  happy  lot, 
O  be  the  fault  forgiven  and  forgot, 

For  tranced  are  the  mortal  eyes  that  gaze 
Upon  her  wrist. 

Upon  that  warm  white  pillar  of  desire, 
Chaster  than  unstained  marble,  still  abide, 
O  pea-green  babbler,  at  my  lady's  side, 
Nor  ever  of  her  gracious  presence  tire, — 
Be  thou,  fond  bird,  the  live  and  echoing  lyre 
Upon  her  wrist. 


A  LEAVE-TAKING 

To-night,  I  leave  her. 

Fast  asleep  she  lies, 

How  soft  her  breathing — how  divinely  fair — 

How  pure  against  her  snowy  pillow,  there — 
How  like  a  goddess  with  sweet,  sealed  eyes, 
She  sleeps,  unconscious  of  the  destinies 

That  hide  within  the  dull  gold  of  her  hair! 

To-night,  I  leave. 

To-morrow,  she  will  wear 
Upon  her  swanlike  throat  a  scarf  of  sighs. 

Once,  how  I  loved  her!  loved  the  very  grass 
Whose  velvet  cushioned  her  caressing  feet; — 
But  now,  just  as  the  night  and  morning  meet, 
My  faith — my  hope  is  shattered  like  a  glass, 
And  from  the  wreck  my  bleeding  heart  must  pass, 
Farewell !  farewell ! — the  ruin  is  complete ! 


The  Lute  of  Life  285 


O  bleak  is  the  night 

That  is  shorn  of  its  stars,  . 
And  cold  is  the  heart 

That  is  chastened  with  scars; 
But  bleaker  and  colder 

Than  everything  yet, 
Is  the  love-plundered  bosom 

That  can  not  forget. 

The  bright  crystal  dews 

That  o'er-sprinkle  the  lawn, 
Slip  back  into  mist 

At  the  touch  of  the  dawn, — 
But  the  lover  low-chained 

To  the  rack  of  regret 
Must  languish  in  pain, 

For  he  can  not  forget. 

White  sails  of  the  ocean 

Grow  dingy  on  shore, 
But  brighten  again 

As  they  sweep  the  seas  o'er ; 
Not  so  the  fond  eyes 

With  love's  hopelessness  wet- 
The  heart  never  lightens 

That  can  not  forget. 

The  visions  of  terror 

That  haunt  us  by  night, 
Like  shadows  take  wing 

At  the  first  flush  of  light ; 
But  the  breast  of  despair 

Still  in  anguish  must  fret, 
For  the  curse  is  upon  it — 

It  can  not  forget. 


286  The  Lute  of  Life 


AT  CHRISTMAS  EVE 

O  wind  of  December! 

Blow  high!  blow  low! 
Blow  out  of  the  north — blow  over  the  snow ! 

Blow !  Blow ! 

Blow  out  of  the  east — blow  out  of  the  west — 
Blow  over  the  hills  by  the  cuckoo's  nest! 
Blow,  O  wind,  as  you  used  to  blow 

In  the  wild,  white  night 

Of  a  boy's  delight, 
In  the  Christmas-time  of  the  Long  Ago! 

O  fire  of  December, 

Glimmer  and  glow! 
Burn  like  the  heart  of  a  boy  I  know — 

Burn!  burn! 

Burn  till  the  pippins  burst,  and  then 
Burn  till  the  pop-corn  fills  the  pan! 
Burn,  O  fire,  till  the  midnight  chime 

Shall  beckon  to  bed 

Each  golden  head, 
To  dream  the  dreams  of  the  Christmas-time ! 


AN  OPEN  WINTER 

The  warm  winds  are  blowing, 
The  streams  are  still  flowing, — 
The  grass  is  scarce  dead  yet, 
The  birds  have  not  fled  yet, 
And  winter  is  going. 

In  the  gray  of  the  hollow 
Still  lingers  the  swallow, — • 
And  sheep-bells  are  tinkling 
Where  soft  rains  are  sprinkling 
O'er  forest  and  fallow. 


The  Lute  of  Life  287 

The  blue-flies  still  cling  to 
The  pane,  as  they  sing  to 
The  raindrops  descending, 
And  dancing  and  blending, 
In  glee  of  the  spring,  too. 

Half-hid  under  cover 
Of  sedge-grass,  the  plover 
Sits  patiently  patching 
Her  wardrobe,  and  watching 
The  clouds  flying  over. 

No  sleeting — no  snowing, 
No  keen  blizzards  blowing, — 
No  raging — no  riot 
Of  nature, — all 's  quiet ! 
And  winter  is  going. 


WHERE  WILLIE  WAS 

Where  Willie  was,  the  daylight  dies, 

And  deathlike  silence  overlies 

The  greensward  and  the  garden,  where 
His  baby  feet  once,  brown  and  bare, 

Went  pattering  under  summer  skies. 

Now  stilled  for  aye  the  childish  cries, 
And  hushed  the  tender  lullabies 
A  mother  sang,  at  twilight,  there, 
Where  Willie  was. 

And  I — I  marvel  if  those  eyes, 
Unsealed  in  yonder  Paradise, 

Look,  ever,  down  the  shining  stair 

Upon  the  little  empty  chair 
And  scattered  playthings  that  we  prize, 
Where  Willie  was. 


288  The  Lute  of  Life 


TO  NATURE 

With  thee,  O  Mother  Nature,  let  me  bide 
A  little  space;  I  ask  but  only  this, 
To  feel  upon  my  face  thy  faintest  kiss; 
To  hold  my  palm  in  thine,  nor  be  denied 
The  touch  that  makes  a  sad  soul  satisfied, 
Nor  any  joyance  in  thy  heart  that  is : — 
Let  me,  one  fleeting  moment,  share  thy  bliss, 
In  tongueless  transport,  nestling  at  thy  side, 
There  let  the  mad  world  beckon  as  it  will — 
In  thy  warm  clasp,  in  thy  serenest  smiles, 

I  anchor  all  my  cares,  and  so  forget 
The  sombre  road  that  shimmers  up  the  hill, 
Flint-fretted,  thro'  the  link'd  and  lonesome  miles, 
To  where  the  tired  stars  in  glory  set. 


THE  ENCHANTED  POOL 

My  soul  is  an  enchanted  pool, 

Round  whose  dim  marge  the  fairies  flit 
By  moonlight,  when  the  night  is  cool 

And  silence  overhangeth  it. 

They  thither  throng  in  twinkling  ranks, 
Half-clad,  as  to  an  elfin  wake, — 

They  revel  on  the  dewy  banks 
That  slope  unto  the  mimic  lake. 

They  leap  adown  the  darkling  strand, 
They  dip  into  the  dusky  waves — 

They  glimmer  round  the  haunted  land, 
Like  ghosts  o'er  long-forgotten  graves. 

Their  images  are  nightly  glassed 
Upon  the  waters  dim  and  deep, — 

Alas!  the  fickle  water  hast 
No  power  their  subtle  charms  to  keep. 


The  Lute  of  Life 289 

O,  some  have  features  sweet  and  fair, 
With  lips  that  laugh,  and  starry  eyes, — 

And  some  a  withered  aspect  wear, 
In  whom  no  trace  of  beauty  lies. 

And  some — ah,  some  have  faces  known 
In  other  times,  in  alien  spheres, — 

Their  airy  forms  are  backward  blown 
By  night  across  the  flood  of  years. 

At  times,  when  all  the  land  is  mute, 
Some  boat  with  elfin  sail  or  oar 

Across  the  phantom  lake  doth  shoot, 
And  vanish  to  the  farther  shore. 

And  oft  adown  the  waters  pour 

The  fragments  of  some  wondrous  song, 

Heard  only  once,  and  heard  no  more, 
In  all  the  world,  a  whole  life  long. 

My  soul  is  an  enchanted  pool, 

Round  whose  dim  marge  the  fairies  flit 

By  moonlight,  when  the  night  is  cool 
And  silence  overhangeth  it. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE 

"O,  where  is  the  Garden  of  Love?"  I  said 
To  a  frail  old  man  as  he  passed  me  by; 
He  paused  a  moment  with  bended  head, 
Then  turned  his  face,  and  his  eyes  were  red, 
As  he  pointed  up  to  the  summer  sky. 

"O,  where  is  the  Garden  of  Love?"  I  cried 

To  a  skeptic  bold,  in  a  mood  profound; 
A  smile  of  cynical  scorn  and  pride 
Played  over  his  brow  as  he  replied 

By  pointing  straight  to  the  frozen  ground. 

19 


290  The  Lute  of  Life 

"O,  where  is  the  Garden  of  Love?"  said  I, 
To  a  youth  who  sat  in  a  cloud  of  sighs; 
The  blood  pulsed  up  with  a  ruddy  dye 
To  his  pallid  face,  and  he  made  reply 
By  pointing  swift  to  a  sweet  girl's  eyes. 

"O,  where  is  the  Garden  of  Love?"  I  spoke, 
To  a  warrior  bold  with  a  battered  shield ; 
He  parted  the  folds  of  his  martial  cloak, 
And  pointed  away,  with  a  careless  joke, 
To  the  crimson  slopes  of  a  battle-field. 

"O,  where  is  the  Garden  of  Love?"  I  sighed, 

To  a  slender  girl  with  a  drooping  head; 
She  stood  by  the  brink  of  a  turbid  tide 
Where  the  March  winds  blew,  and  the  maid  replied 
By  glancing  down  at  the  river's  bed. 

"O,  where  is  the  Garden  of  Love,  good  dame?" 

I  asked  a  mother  in  accents  mild; 
She  shivered  and  wept,  and  a  blood-red  flame 
Went  over  her  cheek,  as  she  called  the  name 

And  kissed  the  lips  of  her  dying  child. 

For  the  Garden  of  Love  I  search  no  more, 

In  the  Earth  below  nor  the  Heaven  above; 
'Tis  not  on  a  far-off  fabled  shore, 
With  golden  walls  and  a  diamond  door; — 
Where  the  heart  is,  there 's  the  Garden  of  Love. 


THE  DOVES 

There's  something  in  the  far-off  coo 
Of  twilight-nesting  doves,  that  thrills 

My  listening  spirit  through  and  through, 
Out  here  among  the  lonesome  hills : — 

What  is  it?     Something  half  divine, 
A  patient,  pleading  undertone 


The  Lute  of  Life  291 

Of  pathos  I  can  ne'er  define, 
Of  passion  kindred  to  my  own. 

A  sound  subduing  and  subdued, 

A  sinking  strain  that  swoons  and  dies 
Amidst  the  melancholy  wood, 

What  time  the  tristful  cricket  cries : — 
No  piping  skylarks,  sphered  with  blue, 

Nor  linnets  down  the  lanes  of  musk, 
Can  bead  my  dreaming  eyes  with  dew, 

Like  those  low-crooning  doves  of  dusk. 

When,  at  God's  bidding,  every  bird 

Flew  thither,  eager  to  receive 
Its  own  sweet  song,  all  Eden  stirred 

To  welcome  them,  that  summer  eve; 
And  all  were  jubilant  and  gay, 

Save  one,  who  never  shared  their  mirth, 
The  turtle-dove,  who  turned  away, 

And  learned  the  saddest  song  on  earth. 

And  this  alone  is  why  I  love 

Its  plaintive,  pleading  voice  the  best, — 
Earth's  anguish  grieves  the  tender  dove 

And  breaks  to  music  in  its  breast; — 
When  fields  grow  dusk,  and  waters  dim, 

How  sweet  to  wander  forth  alone, 
And  hear,  far  down  the  wood's  dark  rim, 

The  drowsy  doves  of  twilight  moan. 


AT  MAXINKUCKEE 

Of  Cashmere  vale  (see  Lalla  Rookh!) 

Tom  Moore  has  sung  in  numbers  lucky, 
Yet  never  bard  in  any  book 
Has  wreathed  in  rhyme  a  sweeter  nook 
Than  Maxinkuckee. 


292  The  Lute  of  Life 

The  greenliest  of  Northern  lakes, 

She  smiles  serene  as  some  sultana, 
And  all  her  dimpled  beauty  wakes 
To  music  when  the  moonlight  breaks 
O'er  Indiana. 

The  tresses  of  her  comely  trees 
Are  rippled  into  coy  disorder 
Before  the  dalliance  of  the  breeze 
That  kneels  at  Maxinkuckee's  knees 
And  leans  toward  her. 

The  days  come  down  in  courtly  file, 

Arrayed  in  ranks  of  living  splendor, 
As  fair  as  those  that  used  to  smile 
When  Scotland's  king  sought  Ellen's  Isle 
In  transport  tender. 

The  lances  of  the  summer  noon 

Are  tempered  by  the  light  winds  blowing, — 
And  when  the  twilight  leads  the  moon 
Along  the  wave,  the  heart  of  June 
Seems  overflowing. 

By  Maxinkuckee's  magic  shore, 

When  darkness  o'er  the  blue  lake  closes, 
Is  heard  the  dip  of  many  an  oar 
Amidst  a  thousand  lights  that  pour 
Their  rays,  like  roses. 

Let  Venice  boast  her  gondoliers, 

Her  brawny  boatmen,  proud  and  plucky, — 
Have  we  not  arms  as  strong  as  theirs, 
And  loving  hearts  as  true  as  hers, 
At  Maxinkuckee? 

Let  Germans  dream  beside  the  Rhine, 

And  Spaniards  by  the  Guadalquivir, — 
We  crave  no  fairer  scenes  than  thine, 


The  Lute  of  Life  293 


Sweet  lake,  whose  laughing  waters  shine, 
Love-lit,   forever. 

A  toast  we  pledge  to  all  the  West, 

From  Canada  to  old  Kentucky: — 
"May  he  who  roams  in  search  of  rest, 
Take  heed,  and  end  the  weary  quest 
At  Maxinkuckee." 


A  REFLECTION 

To-day  is  ours,  to-morrow  God's;  and  this 
Is  all  of  life  we  know.     Helpless  we  stand 
Beside  the  straits  of  Time;  on  either  hand 

An  ocean  infinite  as  the  abyss 

Between  a  past  day  and  a  day  that  is. 
Beneath  our  feet  the  ever-sliding  sand 
Down-sweeps  us,  struggling,  to  the  starless  strand 

Where  billows  rock  and  blinding  sea-winds  hiss. 

Why  vex  our  souls  with  vain  similitudes 
Of  life,  which,  ere  we  can  discern  it,  slips 
From  out  the  harbor,  like  a  dream  of  ships, 

Half-freighted,  to  the  alien  solitudes, 

The  home  of  silence,  where  the  long  night  broods, 
And  Time  sinks,  breathless,  'neath  the  vast  eclipse? 


MEADOWS  OF  GOLD 

Meadows  of  gold, — 

Rolling  and  reeling  a-west! 
Ye  clasp  and  hold 

The  milk  of  the  world  in  your  breast. 
Ye  are  the  nurses  who  clutch 
The  ladles  of  life,  and  touch 
The  lips  that  famish  and  burn 
In  agony  cruel  and  stern. 


294  The  Lute  of  Life 


Meadows  of  gold, — • 

Reaching  and  running  away, 
Shod  with  the  mold, 

And  crowned  with  the  light  of  the  day ! 
Ye  are  the  chemists  of  earth, 
The  wizards  who  waken  to  birth 
The  violets  blue,  and  buttercups,  too, 
Under  the  dark  and  the  dew. 

Meadows  of  gold, — 

Winding  and  wending  along, 
Fair  to  behold, 

And  merry  and  mellow  with  song! 
Ye  are  the  poets  whose  chimes 
Are  rung  by  the  reapers — whose  rhymes 
Are  written  in  windrows  of  grass 
By  musical  sickles  that  pass! 

Meadows  of  gold, — 

Laughing  and  leaping  afar, 
Fast  in  your  fold 

Forever  the  beautiful  are! 
Ye  are  the  Hebes  who  dip, 
And  lift  from  the  loam  to  the  lip, 
The  nectar  whose  plethoric  flood 
Is  tinted  and  turned  into  blood. 


A  RAINLESS  APRIL 
(IN  ILLINOIS) 

No  rain,  no  dew,  no  vapor.    High  and  bright, 
The  sun  climbs  up  and  over,  and  the  sky 
Is  one  vast  pearl.     .     .     .    Day  after  day  goes  by, 

Green-kirtled,  flinging  blossoms  left  and  right; 

The  prairie  fires  are  crackling,  and  the  night 

Is  ribboned  round  with  flame — while  from  the  dry, 
Fire-eaten  fields  the  frightened  wild-birds  fly, 

Before  the  burnt  lands,  in  bewildered  flight. 


The  Lute  of  Life 295 

As  when  a  strong  man  stands  beside  the  dead, 
Blanched  with  unutterable  woe — and  tears 

Come  not  to  soften  and  subdue  his  pain — 

So  April  at  the  Winter's  low  death-bed 
Kneels  quiveringly  down,  nor  ever  hears 

The  pleasing  patter  of  the  tearful  rain. 


THE  DYING  BUTTERFLY 

And  so,  my  little  Gay  Wing, 

You're  still  at  last; 
Your  days  of  dallying, 

Like  mine,  are  past. 

As  listlessly  you  lie 

There  in  the  sun, 
Somehow,  I  feel  that  I, 

Too,  am  undone. 

You  spent  one  blissful  hour, 

My  butterfly, 
Flitting   from  flower  to  flower- 

And  did  not  I? 

Our  hearts  were  light,  my  dear, 

And  knew  not  love ; 
Whatever  joy  came  near, 

We  sipped  thereof. 

I  was  a  type  of  you, 

As  you  of  me — 
Twins  of  the  light  and  dew, 

Ever,  were  we. 

Nothing  we  knew  of  grief, 

Under  the  sky; 
Bright  was  our  life,  but  brief, 

My  butterfly. 


296 The  Lute  of  Life 

As  you  in  the  dust  lie  prone 
Under  autumn  skies, 

It  is  I,  and  I  alone, 
Can  sympathize. 

Now  that  the  lights  are  low 
And  the  play  is  done, 

Tis  time  that  I,  too,  go 
To  rest,  dear  one. 

For  us  no  tear  will  fall, 

As  days  go  by — 
Men  knew  us  not  at  all, 

My  butterfly. 


LADY  LAURA  IN  THE  NORTH 

Lady  Laura,  in  the  North, 

Leaning  at  her  lattice  high, 
Lingeringly  looking  forth, 

Saw  the  wild  swan  southward  fly,- 
Heard  afar  the  clanging  cranes, 

Sweeping  from  the  fields  of  snow 
To  the  sunlit  summer  plains 

Where  the  warm  magnolias  blow. 

Lady  Laura,  looking  south, 

Trembled  like  an  aspen-leaf, 
While  around  her  perfect  mouth 

Crept  the  early  curves  of  grief; 
All  her  life  seemed  but  a  ring 

Of  remembrance  and  regret, 
As  she  stood  there  quivering 

Like  a  wind-swayed  violet. 

Lady  Laura,  lily-tall, 

"Standing  at  her  casement  high, 
Saw  the  evening  shadows  fall, 


The  Lute  of  Life 297 

Saw  the  wild-birds  homeward  fly; — 
But  she  spake  not  any  word, 

Staring  hard  against  the  sky, — 
Never  any  sound  she  heard 

Of  the  loud  world  rolling  by. 

Lady  Laura,  leaning  there, 

Lonely,  in  a  land  forlorn, 
Saw  a  child  with  sunny  hair 

Rise  beyond  the  clouded  corn; — 
Fell  her  tears  like  autumn  rain 

As  she  thought  of  one  dark  day 
And  a  warrior  lying  slain 

On  the  banks  of  Mobile  Bay. 

Lady  Laura — she  is  gone! 

Lonely  is  that  lattice  high, — 
Still  forever  flies  the  swan, 

Still  the  clanging  cranes  go  by; 
In  the  North  a  wanderer 

Clutches  for  a  vanished  hand; 
Desolate  idolater, — 

He  can  never  understand. 


THE  SONNET 

There  is  delight  in  singing,  though  none  hear 
Beside  the  singer. 

— WAI/TER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 

To  sit  in  midnight  solitude,  and  trace 
A  twining  sonnet  through  its  maziness 
Of  subtle  melody  and  sweet  excess 

Of  rhymes  recurrent,  and  to  keep  in  pace 

With  its  elastic  feet  and  flexile  grace, 

To  me  is  pleasure  more  than  one  can  guess 
Who  drawls  it  with  disinterestedness 

When  daylight  dips  the  world  into  his  face. 


298  The  Lute  of  Life 


I  love  the  sonnet's  very  ebb  and  flow, 

Its  short,  swift  motion — its  impetuous  dash 
Against  the  sestet,  and  its  slow  rebound ; — 
Like  wind-whipped  billows  that  to  landward  go, 
It  leaps  along  beneath  the  master's  lash, 
Till  beaten  backward  like  a  baffled  hound.    - 


AT  MILKING  TIME 

At  milking  time,  when  shadows  climb 
The  pasture-bars,  and  sheep-bells  chime 
High  up  along  the  sunset  hill, — 
'Tis  sweet  to  wander  where  we  will, 
And  take  no  thought  of  care  or  time. 

The  heart  of  boyhood  in  its  prime 
Lights  up  with  joy  the  cheek  of  grime, 
When  katydids  come  out  and  trill, 
At  milking  time. 

There's  not  in  any  land  or  clime 
An  hour  so  sacred,  so  sublime, 
As  that  when  patient  kine  distill 
The  wines  of  life,  in  many  a  rill 
Of  rippling  and  resilient  rhyme, 
At  milking  time. 


THE  OLD  MAJOR  SPEAKS 

Long,  long  has  been  the  journey,  but  the  end  is  draw- 
ing near, 

We  started  out  at  dawn,  good  wife,  and  now  the  dusk 
is  here ; 

Long,  long  has  been  the  journey  that  our  weary  feet 
have  made, 

And  the  hopes  we  held  the  dearest,  at  the  dawning, 
have  decayed; 


The  Lute  of  Life  299 

A  storm  came  up  the  valley  as  we  crossed  the  Great 

Divide, 
And  two  who  traveled  with  us,  then,  fell  stricken  at 

our  side — 
Fell,   shivered  in  the  blast  of  death  that  round  us 

blew  and  beat — 
Fell,  where  their  bleeding  bodies  paved  the  path  for 

Freedom's  feet — 
And  when  at  last  the  storm  was  past,  and  all  the  sky 

grew  fair, 
We  found  the  channels  on  our  cheeks,  the  silver  in  our 

hair. 

But  dry  your  tears,  my  own  good  wife !  loop  up  your 

locks  of  gray, 
And  slip  the  glasses  off  your  eyes,  and  cheat  the  years, 

to-day, — 
For  tho'  the  snow  be  on  the  roof,  the  frost  be  on  the 

pane, 
Some  blossoms  of  the  early  spring  within  our  hearts 

remain ; 
Still  on  these  bleak  December  boughs,  fast  falling  to 

decay, 
In  fancy  I  can  see,  to-night,  again  the  blooms   of 

May, — 

Can  hear  the  robins  fluting  on  the  old  familiar  tree, 
The  babble  of  the  brook  below — the  bluster  of  the 

bee — 

Can  see  the  lilac  blushing  still  beside  the  garden  walk, 
And  hear  the  jeweled  humming-bird  upon  the  holly- 
hock. 

Tho'  long  has  been  the  journey,  wife,  that  we  have 

had  to  go, 
The  skies  are  bright  above  us  now — the  winds  no 

longer  blow, — 

Across  the  valley,  yonder,  I  can  see  the  open  sea, 
Where   the    ships   are    sailing  outward   to   our   "ain 

countree." — 


3QO The  Lute  of  Life 

I  can  hear  the  sailors  singing — I  can  see  the  crowded 

shore 
Where  the  signal-lights  are  burning,  and  the  banners 

blowing  o'er; 
We  are  listed  for  the  voyage, — soon  we  '11  reach  the 

harbor-gate, 
Where  the  boats  come  up  to  anchor,  and  we  won't  have 

long  to  wait, — 
And  when  the  Captain  calls  us,  be  it  dark  or  be  it 

light, 
We  '11  climb  aboard  the  stately  ship  and  bid  the  world 

"Good-night." 


THE  TATTERED  BANNERS 

Take  back  the  tattered  banners 

From  the  laughing  light  of  day, 
In  the  twilight  and  the  silence 

Lay  them  tenderly  away; 
You  have  blessed  them  thro'  the  years, 
You  have  kissed  them  with  your  tears, 
You  have  rushed  with  them  to  glory 
In  a  rhapsody  of  cheers. 

Where  their  rainbow  beauty  beckoned 
You  have  followed,  you  have  stood, 
When  the  blood  of  brothers  eddied 

At  your  feet,  a  purple  flood — 
In  the  dreadful  days  agone 
You  have  borne  them  on  and  on, 
Till  the  night  of  carnage  ended 
In  the  splendor  of  the  dawn. 

Every  star  upon  those  banners 

Is  a  blazing  diadem, 
Set  there  by  Freedom's  fingers 

When  she  consecrated  them 
In  a  holocaust  of  strife, 


The  Lute  of  Life  301 

As  she  panted  for  her  life 
Midst  the  thunder  and  the  tumult 
Of  the  trumpet,  drum,  and  fife. 

Every  broken,  battered  staff 
Over  which  your  flags  are  furled 

Was  a  crutch  the  Nation  leaned  on 
As  she  watched  the  doubting  world. 

Proud  in  all  her  queenly  splendor, 

Yet  with  loving  heart  and  tender, 

Waiting  for  each  holy  promise 
Which  the  God  of  Right  might  send  her. 

Take  back  the  tattered  banners — 
And  let  not  a  tear-drop  gleam 

As  you  yield  them  to  the  ages 
That  are  moving  like  a  dream 

Down  the  long  and  lighted  way 

To  the  glad  and  golden  day 

Which  your  valor  purchased  for  them 
In  the  old,  historic  fray. 

Take  back  the  tattered  banners — 

Let  their  sisterhood  of  stars 
Light  the  inner  shrines  of  Freedom 

Till  Eternity  unbars 
The  fields  of  asphodel, 
Where  the  martyred  heroes  dwell, 
And  the  symphonies  seraphic 

In  unending  chorus  swell. 


COULD  LOVE  DO  MORE? 

Could  love  do  more?    He  laid  his  hand 

Upon  the  battle-axe  and  brand, 

And  through  the  conflict's  fire  and  smoke 
Flashed  swift  and  keen  his  sabre  stroke, 

At  her  imperious  command. 


302  The  Lute  of  Life 


He  won  renown  in  all  the  land, 
For  her  sweet  sake, — that  he  might  stand 
Triumphant,  and  her  love  invoke — 
Could  love  do  more? 

Alas!  she  scorned  him.     Pale  and  bland, 
He  turned  away.    Upon  the  strand 

They  found  him  when  the  morning  broke, 
With  blood  upon  his  brow  and  cloak, 
And  only  she  could  understand : — 
Could  love  do  more? 


ROBERT  BURNS 

The  tuneful  prophets  of  the  grove 

His  poet  tongue  translated ; 
The  simple  joys  of  rural  love 

His  genius  consecrated ; 
The  music  of  the  lover's  lute 

Beneath  his  touch  grew  warmer; 
The  land  of  minstrelsy  was  mute 

Till  Burns  began  to  charm  her. 

A  song-bird  of  a  stormy  night, 

Men  heard  his  wild  voice  pealing- 
He  sang  a  gospel  of  delight 

With  matchless  skill  and  feeling ; 
When  by  the  cotter's  humble  hearth 

He  piped  of  rustic  pleasures, 
The  proudest  monarchs  of  the  earth 

Stood  list'ning  to  his  measures. 

A  peasant  poet  of  the  heart 
With  whom  is  no  comparing, 

He  scorned  the  mimicry  of  art 
With  independent  daring; 

He  toiled  among  his  native  braes, 
A  lover  never  lazy, 


The  Lute  of  Life  303 

Immortalizing  with  his  lays 
The  "Mousie"  and  the  r'Daisy." 

When  life  had  passed  its  plenilune, 

And  joys  began  to  languish, 
He  wandered  back  to  Bonnie  Doon 

To  while  away  his  anguish — 
To  breathe  away  life's  twilight  hours, 

Remote  from  haunts  of  fashion, 
Amidst  the  vernal  fields  and  flowers 

That  nursed  his  earliest  passion. 


^_  THE  STORY  OF  "SHE" 
(WRITTEN  ON  A  FLY-LEAF) 

And  is  it  but  a  fancy — but  a  dream — 
A  tantalizing  figment  of  the  brain? 
Long,  long,  beneath  the  casement  I  have  lain, 
Oblivious  of  the  day's  declining  beam, 
Bewilderingly  drifting  down  the  stream 
Of  this  strange  story,  to  the  ruined  plain 
Of  Kor,   where,   caverned   in  the   mountain-chain, 
Dwelt  SHE,  the  chaste,  the  changeless,  the  supreme, — 
The  marvelous  white  empress  of  the  South — 
The  lone  Enchantress,  patient  in  her  pain, 
Till  twice  ten  hundred  years  brought  back  again 
The  kiss  of  Kallikrates  to  her  mouth ; — 
Alas!  the  Pillar  of  the  Rolling  Fire 
Was  but  the  fierce  flame  of  her  own  desire. 


PASSING  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR 

With  stormy  glances  backward  bent, 
And  riveled  lips  and  wrinkled  hands, 

He  steps  at  midnight  from  his  tent 
And  hobbles  down  the  frozen  lands. 


304  The  Lute  of  Life 


Lear-like,  he  stands  against  the  storm, 
His  tattered  raiments  blown  apart, — 

His  withered  form  no  fire  can  warm, 
Nor  thaw  the  life-blood  at  his  heart. 

Like  some  grim  Viking  of  the  North 
Retreating  from  a  plundered  ship, 

The  gray-beard  pilgrim  presses  forth 
With  scowling  brow  and  scornful  lip. 

In  moody  silence  moving  on, 

He  melts  into  the  moonless  night, 

And  ere  the  bells  ring  up  the  dawn 
His  struggling  spirit  wings  its  flight. 


TO  A  LADY 
(IN  HER  ANGER) 

I've  seen  the  lightning  flame  and  flash 
Across  the  summer  skies — 

I've  seen  the  tempest  leap  and  dash, 
And  awful  storms  arise, 

But  nothing  like  the  hurricane 
I  saw  in  Jessie's  eyes. 

Her  face  is  fair — is  always  fair, 
When  peace  is  in  her  breast, 

But  far  more  beautiful,  I  swear, 
When  anger  breaks  her  rest — 

When  sudden  passion  stirs  her  blood 
To  fury  unexpressed. 

O  if  those  eyes  were  turned  on  me 
Before  their  wrath  were  fled, 

I'd  sink  upon  my  bended  knee 
With  guilty  fear  and  dread, 

The  while  I  kissed  the  pretty  fist 
She  shook  above  my  head. 


The  Lute  of  Life  305 


MY  FAVORITE  POEM 

It  is  a  little  volume,  velvet-faced, 
Lettered  with  blue,  and  flecked  with  pink  and  white, 
With  flowers  of  fancy  daintily  bedight, 

On  leaves  of  lilied  purity,  and  graced 

With  quaint  designs,  inwrought  and  interlaced, 
That  touch  the  critic   sense  with  keen  delight, — 
And  on  the  first  page  Love's  own  copyright 

In  lines  of  beauty  delicately  graced. 

A  miracle  of  poetry !    Each  day 

I  re-peruse  it,  for  within  it  lies 
A  dream  of  joy  that  charms  my  cares  away 

And  opes  for  me  the  gates  of  Paradise ; 
Nor  can  I   from  its  sweet  enchantment  stray, — 

The  wondrous  epic  of  my  baby's  eyes. 


WHEN  YOUR  FATHER  WENT  TO  WAR 

When  your  father  went  to  war,  Jennie,  you  were  but 

a  child, 

A  romping  little  rowdy,  running  riotous  and  wild 
In  the  maple-shaded  pasture  where  our  cottage  used 

to  stand, 
And  we  owned  a  timbered  forty  of  the  richest  river 

land, — ' 
Yes,    owned    it — every   inch  of   it — by   labor's   hard 

decree, 
And  none  we  thought,  in  all  the  world,  were  happier 

than  we. 

Our  cattle  browsed  the  summer  hills,  amid  the  blue- 
grass  deep, 
And  all  the  shady  bottom-lands  were  snowy  with  our 

sheep ; 
'T  was  like  a  tale  of  fairy  lore,  the  life  that  we  lived 

then, 
When  I  was  barely  twenty-six  and  you  were  only  ten ; 

20 


306  The  Lute  of  Life 


Love  brought  us  peace  and  comfort,  till  there  rose 

an  evil  star, 
In  the  summer-time  of  plenty,  when  your  father  went 

to  war. 

Ah,  Jennie,  I  remember  well  the  day, — 't  was  late  in 

June, 
Your  father  he  came   riding  home   from  town  one 

afternoon, 
And  his  face  was  pale  and  haggard  as  he  reached  the 

door  and  threw 
One  arm  around  me,  daughter,  while  he  laid  one  hand 

on  you; 

And  as  my  senses  faltered  and  I  reeled  in  his  embrace, 
I  read  the  fearful  meaning  that  was  written  in  his 

face, — 
I  felt  it  in  the  bounding  blood  that  beat  against  my 

breast, 
I  needed  not  a  spoken  word, — too  well  I  knew  the 

rest ; 
And  all  that  night  in  dreams  I  heard  the  tramp  of 

marching  feet, 
And  far  away  I  saw  the  flags  grow  dimmer  down  the 

street ; 
'Twas  long  ago!  but,  O,  my  heart  has  not  outgrown 

the  scar 
God's  finger  put  upon  it  when  your  father  went  to 

war. 

Then  you  and  I  were  left  alone.    We  tried  a  year  or 

so, 
By  hiring  help,  to  scrimp  along,  but  could  n't  make 

it  go; 
The  spring  floods  swept  away  the  corn,  the  drouth 

of  summer  dried 
The  grasses  on  the  uplands,  and  we  had  no  crops 

beside ; 
So  we  parted  with  the  cattle  that  we  could  no  longer 

keep, 


The  Lute  of  Life 307 

We  sold  the  only  team  we  had,  and  traded  off  the 

sheep ; 
And  when  the  winds  of  autumn  shook  the  pipes  about 

the  eaves, 

And  in  the  woodland  hollows  piled  the  brown  Oc- 
tober leaves, 
When  the  hazel-nuts  were  ripening  in  the  old  familiar 

copse, 
And  the  wild  geese  wedging  southward,  far  above 

the  maple-tops, 
We  locked  the  dear  old  farm-house  up  and  closed  the 

pasture  bar, 
And  moved  into  the  village,  when  your  father  went 

to  war. 

Then  winter  came — a  dreary  time — a  night  of  hopes 

and  fears, 
On  every  hand  the  widows  wept,  and  fell  the  mothers' 

tears — 
A  reign  of  blood  and  ruin !    Every  day  some  passing 

train 
Brought  back  a  load  of  mangled  men — brought  back 

the  coffined  slain; 
And  Jennie,  O  my  Jennie!  ere  the  snows  of  winter 

passed 
They  bore  your  father  back  to  us — they  brought  him 

home  at  last ; 

They  sent  him  from  the  frozen  hills  beside  the  Ten- 
nessee, 
Borne  down  amidst  the  battle,  where  the  bravest  love 

to  be; 
They  sent  him  back  a  ruined  man  for  life,  alas,  my 

child! 

I  turned  away  in  agony,  I  raved  as  one  grown  wild. 
But  why  recall  the  story  now  ?    The  years  have  drifted 

far, 
And  we  've  grown  used  to  trouble,  since  your  father 

went  to  war. 


308 The  Lute  of  Life 

The  times  have  changed.    We,  too,  have  changed.    To- 
night the  blue  and  gray 
Sit  round  their  fires  with  lighted  pipes  and  puff  their 

hates  away — 
Sit  spinning  yarns  about  their  camps,  until  the  drowsy 

stars 
Put  out  their  light  and  wave  "good-night"  across  the 

twilight's  bars. 
Although  my  heart  be  broken,  and  although  my  hair 

be  white, 
And  though  the  years  have  brought  me  but  disaster 

in  their  flight, 

I  am  wicked  in  my  weakness,  I  am  cruel  to  complain, 
When  yonder  patient  sufferer  sits  smiling  at  his  pain — 
Sits  crooning  in  the  autumn  moon  the  ballads  made 

to  praise 

The  lustre  of  his  daring  in  the  old  heroic  days — 
Sits  dreaming,  Jennie,  dreaming,  of  the  battlefields 

that  are 
The  glory  of  the  ages,  since  your  father  went  to  war. 

A  little  while — it  won't  be  long,  until  the  soldiers 
come 

And  bear  away  their  comrade  to  the  dead-march  of  a 
drum, 

To  the  green  hills  over  yonder,  where  eternal  tents  are 
spread, 

And  no  pensions  are  rejected  in  the  domains  of  the 
dead; 

Where  justice  is  no  jester,  and  where  glory  counter- 
signs 

The  muster-rolls  of  freedom  as  the  century  declines; 

Yes,  child,  to  that  Republic  where  no  partisan  is  found, 

Where  the  private  is  promoted  and  the  potentate  dis- 
crowned, 

Our  loved  one  now  is  journeying;  and  as  for  you  and 
me, 

It  matters  not, — the  potter's-field  our  heritage  may 
be; 


The  Lute  of  Life  309 

The  future  frowns  and  threatens,  but  thank  God  it  can 

not  mar 
The  glory  that  we  garnered  when  your  father  went 

to  war. 


LIBBY  PRISON  IN  CHICAGO 

O  gruesome  relic  of  a  rueful  day ! 

What  awful  recollections  throng  the  brain 

Of  some  who  walk  thy  gloomy  floors  again, 
Thy  reeking  dungeons  where  no  sunbeams  stray. 
How  changed  the  scenes !  No  more  in  grim  array 

The  wary  sentries  pace  these  pens  of  pain. 

The  voiceless  musket  and  the  rusted  chain 
Hang  on  thy  walls,  as  eloquent  as  they. 

Here  yawns  the  tunnel  where  the  tireless  men 
Delved  daily,  menaced  with  a  thousand  fears, 

Toiling  for  liberty  without  surcease. 
O  brave,  imprisoned  hearts !  God  grant  that  when 
We  tunnel  thro'  Time's  penitential  years 
We,  too,  shall  pass  into  the  fields  of  peace. 


LILT  OF  THE  LUNATIC 

When  the  soul,  in  all  its  splendor, 

On  the  topmost  wave  is  rowing, 
And  in  tranquil  tones  and  tender 

All  the  summer  winds  are  blowing; 
When  there's  nothing  left  to  render 

Greater  bliss  than  now  we're  knowing, 
And  the  smiling  of  the  Sender 

Fills  the  soul  to  overflowing, — 
What  a  sorrow  'tis  to  borrow 

From  the  burdens   of  to-morrow 
All  the  grieving  and  deceiving, 

All  the  pangs  of  disbelieving, 


310  The  Lute  of  Life 


All  the  petty  cares  and  quibbles, 
And  the  canker-worm  that  nibbles 

At  the  root  of  every  virtue 

And  the  heart  of  every  sorrow. 

When  the  flame  of  love  is  dying, 

Like  the  light  in  yonder  planet, 
And  the  stricken  soul  is  sighing 

Where  the  eyes  of  all  may  scan  it; 
When  the  heart 's  already  lying 

'Neath  imaginary  granite, 
And  the  ship  of  hope  is  flying 

'From  the  shore,  with  none  to  man  it,- 
What  a  pleasure,  at  our  leisure, 

To  run  backward  and  remeasure 
All  the  blisses,  clasps,  and  kisses 

That  the  present  moment  misses ; 
All  the  frolic  and  the  folly 

Of  the  golden  days  and  jolly, 
And  to  rifle  all  the  pockets 

Of  the  past  of  all  their  treasure. 


BENEATH  A  PICTURE 

Beauty,  the  spirit  of  all  love,  abides 

And  breathes  in  every  line  of  her  sweet  face — 

A  vital  presence — an  enthralling  grace — 
Wherein  the  soul  of  poetry  resides; 
The  subtle  witchery  of  genius  hides 

Within  the  artist's  every  touch  and  trace; 

The  arch  eyes   glow,  the  riant  lips   embrace 
The  loveliness  of  Helen; — in  warm  tides, 
The  rhythmic  drapery  flows  round  a  form 

Of  fair  and  queenly  fullness,  such  as  fires 

The  poet's  mobile  fancy  and  inspires 
The  chastened  spirit  with  a  potent  charm; 
Our  Lady!  with  the  lithe,  uplifted  arm, 

Whose  glad  imperious  beauty  never  tires. 


The  Lute  of  Life  311 


THE  PIONEERS 

Here  where  the  bannered  corn  and  bristling  wheat 
Toss  their  proud  tresses  to  the  rustling  breeze; 

Here  where  the  arteries  of  commerce  beat, 
Thro'  laughing  lands  of  luxury  and  ease, — 
Where  lazy  cattle  crop  the  summer  leas, 

And  singing  rivers  woo  the  golden  sand; 
Here  where  the  poor  man  for  his  labor  sees 

Perennial  plenty  rise  on  every  hand, 

We  dwell — the  youngest  heirs  of  Freedom's  holy  land. 

Where  yonder  marble  city  tops  the  plain, 
And  shining  temples  in  the  sunset  glow, 

Where  wealth  and  beauty  hold  perpetual  reign, 
And  busy  hands  the  seeds  of  progress  sow, — 
In  that  same  spot,  a  few  short  years  ago, 

The  cabin  of  the  swarthy  pioneer, 

In  cheerless  solitude,  surpassing  show, 

Nurtured  beneath  its  roof  the  hearts  that  were 

To  build  the  Empire  of  the  western  hemisphere. 

The  giants  of  the  infant  world,  who  slew 
The  dragons  of  the  wilderness,  were  they; 

Along  the  lakes  and  by  the  mountains  blue 
They  burned  the  stubborn  barriers  away, 
And  blazed  a  passage  for  the  brighter  day 

With  ringing  axes  in  the  forest  deep; 

Their  glory  is  our  own!  and  I  would  pay 

The  feeble  tribute  of  my  verse  to  keep 

Their  hardships   unforgot   while   we  their  blessings 
reap. 

They  dammed  the  rivers  and  they  built  the  mills, 
They  trapped  the  beaver  and  they  tracked  the  bee; 

They  harvested  the  wild  grapes  on  the  hills, 
And  steeped  the  fragrant  sassafras  for  tea, 
Stealing  their  sugar  from  the  maple-tree; 

The  bloodroot,  mandrake,  and  the  bitter-sweet, 


312  The  Lute  of  Life 

All  precious  herbs,  and  bountiful  and  free, 
Outspread  their  healing  virtues  at  their  feet — 
Nature's  apothecaries  in  her  rude  retreat. 

For  them  the  plum-tree  shed  its  purple  fruit 
In  gleaming  nuggets  'midst  the  thicket's  shade; 

In  Spring  the  wild  strawberry's  tender  shoot, 
Bediamonded  with  crimson  jewels,  made 
The  hollows  glitter  like  a  masquerade; 

Then  Autumn  with  her  brown  nuts  came  at  last, 
Pouring  her  cornucopia  in  the  glade, 

Ere  surly  Winter  blew  his  chilly  blast 

Upon  the  naked  flats  and  sealed  his  larder  fast. 

And  then  the  snows  came,  and  the  squirrel  slept 

Within  the  upper  chambers  of  the  oak; 
And  thro'  the  night  the  watchful  rabbit  leapt, 

And  the  wild  fox  within  his  den  awoke, 
The  darkness  buttoned  round  him  like  a  cloak, 
And  pausing,  listened  for  the  crowing  cock; 

Afar  the  wolf's  howl  thro'  the  forest  broke, 
And  the  brusque  owl  sat  hooting  on  the  rock 
And  preening  the  feathers  of  his  antique  frock. 

And  Summer  carpeted  with  shining  flowers 
The  old  primeval  temples,  and  the  song 

Of  wild-birds  pierced  the  uninvaded  bowers 
With  endless  melody,  when  days  were  long, 
And  hearts  were  innocent  and  hands  were  strong, 

And  love  as  guileless  as  the  feet  were  free; 
And  Eden  streams,  the  Eden  fields  among, 

Ran  dimpling  to  the  lakes  and  to  the  sea, 

Like  unwatched  children  in  their  idle  revelry. 

But  those  were  troublous  times,  and  fell  disease 
Lurked  like  a  demon  in  the  stagnant  swamp, 

Amidst  the  shadows  of  the  cypress  trees, 
Where  the  dull  fire-fly  lit  his  chilly  lamp, 
And  the  sleek  lizard  slumbered  in  the  damp, 


The  Lute  of  Life 313 

Beside  the  reeking  serpent  and  the  newt; 

Contagion  strode  with  ho  unsteady  tramp 
Beneath  the  roof,  and  plucked  the  heart's  best  fruit, 
And  draped  the  lonesome  soul  with  agony  acute. 

Anon,  upon  the  sloping  upland  shone 

New  billows  of  brown  earth,  unseen  before, — 

With  here  and  there  a  strangely-shapen  stone, 
Wraithlike,  uprising  from  the  tufted  floor, 
With  reeling  lines  of  grief  engraven  o'er 

Its  ghastly  facets,  by  some  finger  rude; 

(Death  laughs  to  scorn  the  legends  on  his  door, 

Whether  within  the  dim  wood's  solitude 

Or  in  the  .gilded  shrines  where  giddy  crowds  intrude.) 

Ah!  there  were  dangers, — there  were  accidents 
By  flood  and  field  of  which  we  little  wot; 

The  tempest  pitched  its  melancholy  tents 
Above  the  forest,  and  the  lightning  hot 
Flashed  thro'  the  roaring,  reeling  oaks,  and  shot 

Its  flaming  bolts  along  each  toppling  height, — 
Trailing  its  terrors  o'er  the  settler's  cot, 

And  marking  in  the  fury  of  its  flight, 

Forsooth,  a  smoking  track  of  ruin,  wreck,  and  blight. 

Death  came  in  many  forms, — the  vengeful  snake 
Unloosed  its  venom  with  unerring  aim ; 

The  burly  black  bear  loitered  in  the  brake, 
And  nightly  to  the  hill  the  panther  came 
And  stealthily  outstretched  its  agile  frame, 

To  watch  and  seize  the  unresisting  prey; 

Aye,  there  were  perils  more  than  tongue  can  name 

That  compassed  those  old  foresters, — yet  they, 

With  souls  of  flint,  toiled  on  thro'  all  that  twilight  grey. 

Around  their  huts  the  wily  Indian  crept, 
His  shaft  as  sudden  as  the  serpent's  sting, 

And  many  a  weary  mother,  as  she  slept, 
Was  startled  by  the  war-whoop's  dismal  ring, 


3H The  Lute  of  Life 

The  hiss  of  arrow  and  the  twang  of  string, 
Or  the  fierce  tumult  of  the  savage  horde, 

Beneath  the  wood,  in  their  wild  jargoning; 
And  many  a  cabin  by  the  torch  was  lowered, 
And  many  a  father's  blood  around  his  altar  poured. 

And  prattling  boys  the  rifle  learned  to  wield 
With  fatal  skill — the  pioneers'  first  trade; — 

To  them  the  bounding  buck  was  forced  to  yield 
His  life-blood  in  the  leafy  ambuscade 
Where,  all  unharmed,  for  ages  he  had  strayed; 

Heroic  boyhood!  never  belted  knight 
With  dangling  plume,  more  hardihood  displayed 

In  civil  conflict  or  in  foreign  fight 

Than  daily  marked  the  lives  of  those  of  whom  I  write. 

All  night  within  the  clearing  gleamed  their  fires, 

The  dawn-lights  of  the  splendor  yet  to  come; 
The  wilderness  reeled  back  before  our  sires, 

And  Sharon's  rose,  deep-rooted  in  the  gloom, 

In  virgin  beauty  bursted  into  bloom, 
And  shook  its  fragrant  petals  o'er  the  sod; 

Swift  fingers  sped  the  shuttle  thro'  the  loom, 
And  Titan  forms  amid  the  dark  hills  trod, 
In  rugged  splendor  they,  true  oracles  of  God. 

With  hands  inured  to  toil,  and  hearts  to  love, 

The  border  prophets  taught  the  Word  divine ; 
In  lowly  chapel  and  sequestered  grove 

Their  eloquence  burned  thro'  the  soul  like  wine, 

And  drew  the  evil-doer  to  the  shrine 
Of  wholesome  virtue,  rectitude,  and  grace; 

They  tamed  the  recreant  with  words  benign, 
And  brightened  every  hope-abandoned  face 
With  blessed  comfortings — these  Cartwrights  of  the 
race. 

But  they  are  gone, — the  old  plantocracy, — 

They've  withered  from  the  greenwood,  one  and  all ; 


The  Lute  of  Life 315 

Above  their  dust  the  wind  howls  dolefully, 
And  the  last  coon-skin  molders  on  the  wall ; 
All,  all  are  gone, — and  darkness,  like  a  pall, 

Steals  o'er  the  mem'ry  of  the  pioneers; 
We  drink  the  honey  where  they  quaffed  the  gall, 

We  reap  the  fruitage  of  their  bitter  years, 

And  o'er  their  slumbers  deep,  outpour  the  meed  of 
tears. 

Soft  be  their  pillow  in  the  forest  old, 

And  sweet  the  psalmody  of  bird  and  bee! 
Their  deeds  by  distant  ages  shall  be  told, 

Their  virtues  be  transplanted  o'er  the  sea; 

Their  .valor  built  the  newer  heraldy, 
And  shook  the  despot  on  his  ancient  throne, 

And  brought  imperial  armies  to  their  knee; 
They  were  our  sires,  their  glory  is  our  own, 
From  sainted  Washington  to  brave  old  Daniel  Boone. 


COULD  SHE  BUT  KNOW 

Could  she  but  know  the  love  that  stings 
My  panting  heart,  and  beats  its  wings 

Against  my  lips  in  dire  distress, 

I  wonder  if  the  sorceress 
Would  deign  to  soothe  its  clamorings? 

Could  she  but  know  the  secret  springs 
That  feed  my  soul  with  sufferings, 
Would  she  the  bitter  pangs  make  less,— 
Could  she  but  know? 

Could  she  but  know  the  doubt  that  flings 
Its  shadow  o'er  my  heart,  and  brings 
Destroying  nights  of  sleeplessness, — 
O,  would  her  pitying  lips  express 
One  word — and  end  my  torturings, 
Could  she  but  know? 


316  The  Lute  of  Life 


A  CONTEMPLATION 

How  can  the  human  heart  be  glad,  I  crave, 

When  round  it  lie  such  woe  and  wretchedness — 
When  every  day  the  gateways  of  the  grave 

Close  on  the  care-worn  cavalcades  that  press 

Into  the  unillumined  wilderness, 
From  whose  vague  boundaries  not  one   returns? — 

How  can  the  heart  be  glad,  when  such  excess 
Of  human  agony  still  breathes  and  burns 
Like  brands  into  the  soul,  wherever  it  sojourns  ? 

How  can  the  heart  be  glad  when  day  by  day 

The  rich  grow  haughtier,  the  poor  more  poor — 

When  multiplying  beggars  crowd  the  way, 

Half-clad,  to  gather  bread  from  door  to  door — 
When  jeweled  Croesus,  with  his  coach-and-four, 

Drives  hellward  headlong  o'er  a  helpless  race? — 
How  can  the  heart  be  glad,  when  round  it  pour 

Such  torrents  of  oppression  and  disgrace, 

Whose  nameless  horrors,  still,  my  soul  recoils  to  trace  ? 

How  can  the  heart  be  glad  when  witnessing 
Daily  some  Tarquin,  with  lust-litten  eyes, 

Dragging  an  artless  virgin  quivering 
Into  the  palace  of  his  harlotries — 
Into  Guilt's  bridal-hall,  where  Virtue  dies 

And  Villainy  gloats  o'er  the  ruin  wrought? — 
How  can  the  heart  be  glad,  hearing  the  cries 

Of  prostrate  parents  when  their  child  is  brought 

Deflowered    unto    their    door, — dishonored    and    dis- 
traught ? 

How  can  the  human  heart  be  glad,  I  say, 
When  men  are  taxing  their  best  powers  to  find 

New  methods  still  to  cripple  and  to  slay 
The  frail  and  tottering  columns  of  mankind? 
What  hope  remains  when  brothers,  passion-blind, 

Avenge  like  demons  every  trite  offense? — 


The  Lute  of  Life  317 

How  can  the  heart  to  pleasure  be  resigned, 
When  every  brutal  instinct  grows  intense, 
And  Love  no  longer  finds  a  worthy  recompense? 

How  can  the  heart  be  glad  when  Justice  winks 

Behind  her  balance  at  the  purse-proud  knave; 
When  pale  Hypocrisy,  in  priest-cloth,  clinks 

The  hard-earned  pennies  some  poor  widow  gave; 

When  Pretense  issues  from  his  cobwebbed  cave 
And  climbs  the  crowded  chariot  of  cheap  praise? — 

How  can  the  heart  of  man  be  glad,  I  crave, 
When  in  the  midst  of  these  degenerate  days 
Worth  sits  discrowned  and  Honor  shrinks  from  public 
gaze? 

Staggers  the  stricken  soul  at  sight  of  all 
This  seething  mass  of  sin  and  suffering, — 

When  shall  the  mantle  of  redemption  fall 
Over  the  planet,  like  a  snow-white  wing, 
And  leave  these  godless  passions  battening 

Upon  the  hell-broth  they  themselves  have  brewed? — 
O  speed  the  day  when  round  the  world  shall  ring 

The  anthems  of  a  broader  brotherhood, 

And  men  at  length  forget  to  shed  each  other's  blood. 

O  speed  the  day  when,  glimmering  down  the  world, 

Descends  the  promise  of  a  happier  time, — 
When  war's  black  banners  are  no  more  unfurled 

In  any  country  or  in  any  clime ; 

O  speed  the  day  when  earth,  made  love-sublime, 
Shall  loll  upon  an  atmosphere  of  Peace, — 

When  Joy  shall  cover  up  the  corpse  of  Crime, 
And  Truth's  brave  Argonauts  from  o'er  the  seas, 
To  her  chaste  hands,  once  more,  shall  bring  the  Golden 
Fleece. 

O  speed  the  day  when  Science  hand  in  hand 
With  Poesy  shall  walk  the  star-lit  height 
Of  Fact  and  Fancy  to  the  spirit-land 


3i8 The  Lute  of  Life 

Deep  in  the  highlands  of  the  Infinite; 

O  speed  the  day  when  universal  light 
Shall  flood  the  vale  of  Vice  and  Ignorance, 

And  bring  the  flowers  of  Eden  into  sight; 
When  man  shall  waken  from  Life's  troubled  trance 
To  solacement  supreme,  beyond  the  sky's  expanse. 


WHEN  I  COME  HOME 

When  I  come  home,  my  labors  through, 
Between  the  day-fall  and  the  dew, 
There  comes  a  sound  of  nimble  feet 
Swift-flying  down  the  path  to  meet 
My  own — with  laughter  and  halloo. 

The  cares  that  day  by  day  accrue, 
Turn  backward  and  no  more  pursue, — 
Turn  back  from  this,  my  welcome  sweet, 
When  I  come  home. 

If  I,  beyond  the  welkin  blue, 

Shall  e'er  go  thither  to  renew 

My  life  so  frail  and  incomplete — 
I  only  hope  some  boy  will  greet 

Me  there — just  as  my  own  boys  do, 
When  I  come  home. 


NOVEMBER. 

Deep  lie  the  shadows  on  the  russet  slopes, 

Loud  blows  the  wind  and  shrilly  falls  the  hail; 
The  tangled  sedge-grass  closes  o'er  the  quail, 

And  on  the  withered  hill  the  woodchuck  mopes, 

A  dusky  image  of  disastered  hopes, 

Against  whose  roof  the  ruthless  storms  prevail; — 
November!  and  the  farmer  hunts  the  flail, 

And  puny  Autumn  poets  seek  for  tropes. 


The  Lute  of  Life 319 

Alack-a-day !  that  Nature  e'er  should  robe  her 
Glorious  form  in  gloomy  garbs  like  these; 

Alas!  the  faded  splendor  of  October, 

The  summer  gone,  and  its  Arcadian  ease; 

The  lengthened  year  is  glimmering  to  its  close 

'Mid  piping  tempests  and  descending  snows. 


"BEFORE  THE  WAR" 

"Before  the  war" — O  quaint  old  phrase, 
That  beckons  backward  to  the  ways 
Of  peace  and  plenty  and  repose — 
Ere  Desolation's  blood-red  rose 
Burst  into  blossom,  like  a  blaze! 

How  passing  sweet,  when  Fancy  strays 
Beyond  the  death-zone  to  the  days 

When  brothers  were  not  brothers'  foes, 
Before  the  war! 

But  times  are  changed.    No  banjo  plays 
To  dancing  feet,  in  merry  maze, 

By  moonlight,  where  the  cotton  grows — 
Aye,  vanished  are  the  sences  like  those 
On  which  our  glad  eyes  used  to  gaze 
Before  the  war! 


MAD  DECEMBER 

Blown  down  the  winds  she  cometh,  mad  December, 
Her  snowy  draperies  behind  her  trailing, 
Her  wild  eyes  flashing  and  her  white  lips  wailing, 

As  if,  for  some  old  wrong  she  did  remember, 

Her  dark,  revengeful  spirit  would  dismember 
The  very  globe  beneath  her  passion  paling; 
A  planet's  prayer  is  cold  and  unavailing 

To  her  whose  anger  is  a  glowing  ember. 


320  The  Lute  of  Life 

She  treads  the  tempest,  and  beneath  her  feet 
The  ductile  ocean,  like  a  docile  fawn, 

Crouches  and  licks  its  blue,  congealing  lips; 
She  stings  the  night  with  syllables  of  sleet, 
And  'gainst  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  dawn 
She  lays  the  icy  lashes  of  her  whips. 


A  DREAM-LADY 

How  looked  my  love  ?    Go  ask  the  Tuscan  gray 
How,  in  the  golden  heart  of  Paradise, 
Fell  on  his  tranced  soul  the  tender  eyes 

Of  Beatrice, — or  ask  Petrarch  to  say 

How  Laura's  beauty  on  his  spirit  lay, 
What  time  she  thrilled  it  with  such  rhapsodies ; 
Or  ask  of  Tasso  in  what  angel-guise 

His  Leonora  wooed  his  woes  away. 

So  looked  my  lady,  but  she  did  not  speak, 
Nor  lift  a  hand,  nor  smile  on  me,  nor  sigh, 

Nor  greet  my  soul  with  any  outward  sign ; 
Yet  by  the  token-flowers  of  either  cheek, 
And  by  the  dewy  pleading  of  her  eye, 
I  saw — I  felt — I  knew  that  she  was  mine. 


AN  AUTUMN  THOUGHT 

The  summer  came  slow,  but  the  summer  went  fast, 
Its  pleasures,  before  we  possessed  them,  were  passed, — 
And  the  hand  we  put  forth  for  its  blossoms,  receives, 
In  place  of  their  beauty,  a  bunch  of  brown  leaves ; 
Thus  ever  the  hopes  and  ambitions  we  cherish, 
Before  their  fruition,  fade  from  us  and  perish, 
And  leave  on  our  hearts  but  a  vanishing  gleam 
Of  the  high  aspirations  that  dimpled  our  dream. 


The  Lute  of  Life  321 

Yet  never  a  murmur  escapes  us,  for  we 

Are  but  part  of  a  plan  that  but  dimly  we  see; 

And  like  the  proud  eagle  above  us  that  ranges 

We  sweep  uncomplaining  thro'  time  and  its  changes, 

Still  looking  afar  to  the  mountains  whereon 

We  can  rest,  at  the  last,  when  our  journey  is  done, 

And  garner  the  pleasures  that  ever  withdrew 

From  our  grasp,  on  the  earth,  as  we  traveled  it  through. 


TO  MISS  A.  B.  S. 

Where  once  she  goes, 

Her  presence  stays; 
A  charmed  repose 

Her  glance  betrays ; 
Her  form,  her  face, 

Faintly  defined, 
Leave  sweetness,  grace, 

And  love  behind. 

She  comes  like  some 

Quaint  odor  blown 
From  isles  of  bloom 

O'er  seas  unknown; 
She  goes,  as  goes 

At  summer  dawn 
From  leaf  and  rose 

The  dew  thereon. 

As  shadowy  streams 

To  lone  lakes  roll, 
Herself  she  dreams 

Into  my  soul ; 
Remote  or  near, 

It  matters  naught, 
She's  atmosphere 

To  my  best  thought. 

21 


322 The  Lute  of  Life 

TELL  ME  SOMETHING 
(SONG) 

Tell  me  something,  if  you  can, 

Something  that  I  long  to  hear, — 
Let  me  be  the  only  man 

Who  can  understand  it,  dear; 
Tell  me  something  in  a  way 

That  is  yours,  and  yours  alone, 
Just  a  little  secret,  pray, 

That  shall  be  my  own,  my  own. 

CHORUS 

Tell  me  something — tell  me  true — 
Something  just  for  me  and  you; 
Tell  me  with  your  eyes,  my  dear, 
What  the  world  must  never  hear. 

Tell  me  something  I  shall  prize 

As  the  breath  within  my  breast — > 
Tell  it  only  with  your  eyes, 

For  their  language  is  the  best; 
Tell  me  that  which  I  desire 

More  than  all  things  else  to  hear, 
Tell  me  with  the  melting  fire 

Of  a  thrilling  glance,  my  dear. 


A  BLUEBIRD  IN  JANUARY 

A  ballet-dancer  in  a  churchyard,  thou,— 
A  jester  in  a  charnel-house — a  gleam 
Of  sunlight  falling  on  a  frozen  stream — 

A  sapphire  shining  on  an  Ethiop's  brow! 

O  bluebird  lone,  perched  on  that  withered  bough, 
Come  whistle  round  our  doorway,  till  we  dream 
That  winter  days  are  over,  and  the  beam 

Of  jocund  summer  glitters  on  the  plow. 


The  Lute  of  Life  323 

The  mellow  ditties  of  thy  dapper  throat 

Fill  all  the  icy  air  with  phantom  Springs, — 
And  plumaged  pipers  with  a  rush  of  wings 

Seem  swarming  hither  at  thy  venturous  note; — 
But,  ah !  brave  minstrel,  bleaker  days  we  '11  see 
Ere  blooms  the  buttercup  and  hums  the  bee. 


ON  A  LAUREL  CANE 

[Cut  in  the  mountains  of  Oregon  by  D.  W.  Matthews, 
and  presented  to  the  author. .] 

Thou  relic  plucked  from  Siskou's  lonely  side, 
What  strange,  unlettered  story  dost  thou  bring 
From  those  primeval  solitudes  that  ring 

Responsive  to  the  storm-king's   awful  stride? 

Full  oft  hast  thou  amidst  those  wilds  espied 
The  antlered  monarch  from  his  covert  spring,— 
Hast  heard  the  bounding  torrents  bellowing, 

And  tumbling  into  cascades  steep  and  wide. 

Thy  fallen  leaves  have  rustled  to  the  tread 
Of  mountain  lions;  birds  of  splendid  dyes 
Seldom,  if  ever,  seen  by  human  eyes, 

Have  swung  upon  thy  branches.  Overhead, 
Eagles  have  swept  the  bright  Pacific  skies, 

And  in  thy  shadow  serpents  made  their  ted. 


NOT  IN  MOOD 

Here  lies  my  pencil 
At  hand,  and  my  paper — 

And  there,  shining  softly 
Upon  them,  my  taper, 

Tormentingly  wooing, 
With  coy  necromancy, 


324  The  Lute  of  Life 


My  soul  to  unfetter 
The  wing  of  her  fancy. 

But  vain  are  my  efforts 

To-night  to  untangle 
One  tune  from  tKe  skein 

Of  the  rhythms  a-wrangle  ; 
My  mind  is  as  dull 

As  my  spirit  is  stupid, 
Responding  not  even 

To  cooings  of  Cupid. 

No  pulsing  of  passion 

Awakens  to  motion 
My  feelings  becalmed 

As  a  ship  on  the  ocean ; 
I  sigh  for  the  rise  of 

A  gale  to  release  me, 
But  never  a  breath  comes 

To  aid  or  to  ease  me. 

I  marvel  if  poets 

In  general  try  to 
Enforce  an  afflatus 

And  fail  thus  as  I  do ; 
I  wonder  if  ever 

Such  fog  did  environ 
The  fancy  of  Burns 

Or  the  vision  of  Byron? 

To-night  there  is  nothing 

About  me  prehensile, 
And  so  I'll  just  push  back 

My  paper  and  pencil, 
And  blushingly  rise  with 

A  world  of  excuses, 
And  wait  a  wee  bit  on 

The  whim  of  my  Muses. 


The  Lute  of  Life 325 

THE  SILENT  SINGER 
(ROSAMOND  c.  BAII^Y) 

Lifeless  she  lies — upon  her  lips  the  dew 
Of  melody  still  lingers,  like  the  tide 
Of  old  applauses  borne  from  every  side 

In  doubling  encores  when  her  song  was  through ; 

And  has  she  gone  forever  from  our  view, 
Full-throated  in  her  beauty  and  dark-eyed, 
Brimming  with  light  and  laughter,  like  a  bride 

Whose  eager  face  no  anguish  ever  knew? 

To-night  she  sings  in  other  lands  than  ours, 
To  vaster  throngs  in  more  ethereal  bowers — 

Yet  seems  it  still  we  hear  her  songs  again, 
Breathing  like  echoes  of  the  seas  that  dwell 
Within  the  pearly  windings  of  the  shell — 

And  listening  thus,  we  all  forget  our  pain. 


VANISHING  VISIONS 

The  life  we  live  is  but  a  glimmering  part 
Of  the  eternal  verity — a  gleam 
Of  angel-beauty  in  a  broken  dream, — 

A  mirrored  intimation  of  God's  art, — 

A  glassing  of  Himself  upon  the  heart, — 
An  evanescent  hint  of  His  supreme 
Benignities,  that,  gathered  in  one  beam, 

Out-flash  before  our  spirits,  like  a  dart. 

Ah,  swifter  than  the  swiftest  seraph's  wing, 
Swifter  than  light,  the  heavenly  splendors  break 

In  duplicating  ripples,  and  recede 
Into  the  vastitudes  environing, 
Leaving  our  dim,  deluded  eyes  to  ache, 

Our  lips  to  quiver,  and  our  hearts  to  bleed. 


326  The  Lute  of  Life 


CHRISTMAS  MORNING 

And  now  the  good  St.  Nick  is  come  and  gone, 
And  many  a  fluffy  head  bursts  into  flower 
Above  the  blanket  at  the  twilight  hour, 

With  darting  eyes  that  dip  into  the  dawn, 

Seeking  the  cheery  chimney- jamb,  whereon 

The  pouting  stocking,  like  some  toppling  tower, 
Breaks  with  its  weight,  and  splits  into  a  shower 

Of  broken  rainbows  round  a  tropic  zone. 

The  sun  climbs  up  and  on!  the  merry  chime 
Of  mellow  sleigh-bells  tinkle  o'er  the  snow; 

Each  crimpled  shrub  is  rimpled  up  with  rime, 
And  from  the  eaves  the  long  icicles  grow, 

Till  night  steals  on,  and  moonbeams  through  the  trees 

Kiss  down  our  lids  to  pleasant  memories. 


A  WINTER  NIGHT 

Around  me  are  my  treasures — by  my  fire 

Their  blue  eyes  blink,  their  busy  fancies  dance 
Upon  the  pictured  pages  of  romance, 

With  shouts  of  merriment  that  never  tire — 

In  the  long  nights,  when  winter-winds  are  dire, 
And  pours  the  sleet  in  pattering  petulance 
Against  the  pane,  I  scan  each  countenance, 

And  con  my  joys  with  satisfied  desire. 

Yet  there  be  other  treasures  all  my  own, 
Who  bide  no  longer  by  my  open  grate, 

Partakers  of  my  pleasure  and  my  pain — 
Knee-deep  above  their  graves  the  snows  have  blown, 
And  yet  the  low,  sweet  syllables  of  fate 

Repeat  their  names  and  lisp  their  loves  again. 


The  Lute  of  Life  327 


A  DISSIPATED  GENIUS 

He  lived  a  bottle  and  a  book  between, 
Drinking  deep  draughts  from  each.     The  one, 
With  rarest  wisdom  brimmed  and  over-run, 

Did  bathe  his  soul  with  beauteous  thoughts,  I  ween ; 

The  other,  ruinous  and  all  unclean, 

Plunged  through  his  spirit's  portals,  and  anon 
Made  havoc  of  the  honors  he  had  won 

By  dint  of  genius  in  the  conflict  keen. 

God  pitied  him  at  length,  and  so  he  died, 
With  Plato  in  his  hand,  and  at  his  lip 
A  bottle  from  whose  dragon  mouth  did  drip 

A  stream  of  lambent  hell — a  ghastly  tide ! 
He  died  as  he  had  lived, — ah,  well-a-day! 
A  tragic  lesson,  con  it  as  ye  may. 


TO  ELEANORE 

Belabor  me,  dear  girl,  with  every  term 
Expressive  of  thy  heart's  impassioned  mood- 
Call  me  the  opposite  of  all  things  good, 

Say  that  my  sordid  soul  is  but  a  germ 

Of  guilt  and  folly;  dub  me  but  a  worm, 
Fit  only  for  the  heel  of  maidenhood — 
But  dare  not  chide  me  with  ingratitude, 

That  putrid  pestilence  of  minds  infirm. 

It  ill  beseems  the  beauty  of  thy  lips 
So  cruelly  to  taunt  me,  Eleanore; 

Be  angry  if  thou  wilt — use  all  the  whips 
Of  woman's  petulance  to  square  the  score ; 

Unloose  thy  scorn  upon  me  in  a  flood, — 

But  charge  me  not  with  base  ingratitude. 


328  The  Lute  of  Life 


LIFE-WHAT  IS  IT? 

A  filmy  thread,  tangled  at  either  end, 
And  drawn  across  the  dial  of  the  years 
By  that  old   Spider,   Time,   who  heeds  nor  hears 
The  murmur  of  the  moments  as  they  blend 
Their  melody  with  wailing  hearts  that  rend, 

And  hopes  that  snap  beneath  the  weight  of  tears : — 
And  ere  the  swarthy  spinner  disappears, 
He  breaks  the  magic  thread  that  none  can  mend, 
Leaving  our  startled  eyes  enwrapt  in  mist, 

Our  fingers  palsied  and  our  blanched  lips  mute, 
And  busy  grave-worms  nibbling  at  the  fruit 
Which  Death  has  plucked  and  dangled  at  his  wrist. 
Nor  doth  the  subtle  weaver  come  again, 
To  tie  the  fibre  and  complete  the  skein. 


DEATH— WHAT  IS  IT? 

It  is  a  peaceful  end  of  all  desire, 

An  end  of  dreaming,  and  an  end  of  song, — 
A  happy  winding-up  of  right  and  wrong, 

A  quiet  quenching  of  the  vital  fire; 

A  shadow  lying  on  a  broken  lyre, — 
A  beggar's  holiday, — a  twilight  long, — 
A  landing-place  where  weary  pilgrims  throng, 

A  tranquil  terminus  of  ways  that  tire. 

Death  is  a  respite  from  each  vain  regret, 
It  drops  the  curtain,  it  concludes  the  play, 
It  turns  the  lights  out,  and  it  leads  the  way, 

When  o'er  the  house-tops  all  the  stars  have  set; 
Death  is  the  epilogue  to  which  we  list 
Just  as  the  tired  audience  is  dismissed. 


The  Lute  of  Life  329 


A  VALEDICTION 

The  wind  blows  east,  the  wind  blows  west, 

The  last  dead  leaf  is  on  the  tree, — 
Farewell  the  merry  wine  and  jest, 

And  all  good  fellows  dear  to  me; 
Those  raptur'd  hours  with  feathered  feet, 

My  aching  heart  would  fain  recall, — 
But,  ah!  'tis  ours  no  more  to  meet, — 

Good-night,  and  joy  be  with  you  all. 

The  weary  world  spins  round  and  round, 

And  friends  must  part  as  friends  have  met; 
There  is  no  spot  of  hallowed  ground, 

If  not  where  friendship's  board  is  set; 
The  wind  blows  west,  the  wind  blows  east, 

Our  last  bright  cup  is  mired  with  gall, — 
A  death-head  glimmers  at  the  feast, — 

Good-night,  and  joy  be  with  you  all. 

To-morrow  comes,  to-morrow  goes, 

But  yesterday  returns  no  more; 
We  meet  with  these,  we  part  with  those, 

And  eyes  are  dim,  and  hearts  are  sore; 
A  blinding  mist  obscures  my  sight, 

My  senses  with  their  burden  pall, — 
Time  halts  not  in  his  rapid  flight, — 

Good-night,  and  joy  be  with  you  all. 


TRIBUTES  IN  VERSE 


TWO  TRIBUTES 

By  Bishop  Robert  Mclntyre,  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church. 

PRONOMINAL 
(TO  JAMES  NEWTON  MATTHEWS  ) 

The  name  which  fell  baptismal  on  thy  brow 
Of  that  apostle,  brother  of  our  Lord, 
Surnamed  the  "Just,"  blameless  in  deed  and  word. 

Fell  from  a  prophet's  lips,  for  just  art  thou; 

And  his,  surnamed  the  "Wise,"  who  once  did  bow 
Above  the  apple  'neath  the  garden  tree, 
When  lo!  beside  it  lay  the  golden  key 

Wherewith  we  fare  through  all  God's  mansions  now : — 

Yea,  both  of  these  in  thee  do  meetly  blend. 
Themis  and  Pallas  through  thy  spacious  verse 
Go  gracefully,  enamored  of  thine  art; 
Pushing  thy  Fancy's  'broidered  tapestry  apart, 
They  peer  where  Love  doth  laughingly  rehearse 

Songs  which  thou  singest  us,  Poet  and  Poet's  Friend. 

— ROBERT  MC!NTYRE. 

THE  SOVEREIGN  SINGER 

[Written  for  a  reception  and  banquet  given  to  James 
Newton  Matthews  in  his  home,  which  was  attended 
by  many  distinguished  persons  from  all  parts  of 
the  country.] 

The  greener  fields  and  bluer  skies  of  a  more  perfect 

May 
Were  paved  beneath  and  domed  above  that  far  diviner 

day, 

333 


334  The  Lute  of  Life 

Where  in  its  unabated  heaven,  down  an  unventured 
way, 

The   Nine  had   waited  long. 
The  eldest  with  her  balmy  hands  caught  up  thy  face  as 

she, 

With  all  a  lover's  rapture,  made  a  minstrel  out  of  thee, 
And  for  her  dower  she  gave  the  power  forevermore 
to  be 

The  bard  of  sovereign  song. 

Then  she  tried  thy  new-strung  lute,  and  her  snowy 

finger-tips 

Lay  lightlier  on  the  melody  that  underneath  them  slips, 
Than  lies  the  melting  manna  on  a  dimpled  nursling's 
lips, 

Curved  ruddily  up  to  cloy 

With  rare  kisses  the  ripe  mouth  of  the  mother  drown- 
ing him 

In  the  torrent  of  her  tresses,  the  tumbled,  tousled,  dim 
Glory  of  the  gyves  of  gold  that  hold  each  leaping  limb 
Of  her  blithe,  bonny  boy; 

Then  gave  it  back  to  thee,  with  sweet  sorcery  to  sing 

Ballads   tenderer  than  trembled   on   the  troubador's 
string, 

Strains  as  high  and  holy  as  the  Hebrew  timbrels  ring 
Where  Moses  lifts  his  rod; 

Then  cadenced  soft  and  low  as  Arcadian  shepherds 
blow 

From  out  their  wreathed  flutes  when  moonbeams  come 
and  go 

O'er  piles  of  pillowed  poppies  where  beside  his  slack- 
ened bow 

Sleeps  the  naked  chubby  god. 

To  see  the  gauze  of  iris'd  mist  around  the  mountains 

furled 
When  Day's  urn  of  lilied  chrysolite  against  the  hills 

is  hurled, 


The  Lute  of  Life  335 

And  rivers  of  rose-dawn,  that  drench  the  turrets  of 
the  world, 

Run  veined  through  every  vale ; 

To  watch  the  west,  at  evening  drest  in  gold  and  ver- 
meil dyes, 

Where  stately  clouds  swim  slowly  through  empurpled 
sunset  skies, 

As  drifting  swans  drop  whitely  down  the  streams  of 
Paradise 

Where  fleets  of  angels  sail ; — 

You  called  it  best  to  build  a  nest  far  from  the  haunts 

of  men; 
You  went  where  Nature  beckoned,  as  a  brook  goes 

down  a  glen; 
And  now  for  every  living  thing  in  field  or  wood  or  fefc 

Thou  art  the  interpreter. 
She  hath  made  thy  mind  a  garden,  her  love  thy  sole 

desire, 

And  singing  is  the  same  to  thee  as  to  the  summer  choir, 
When  through  the  red  of  clover  or  white  broidery  of 

the  briar 

You  walk  and  talk  with  her. 

To  you,  the  low  of  cattle,  browsing  down  at  dusk  to 
drink 

Where  disks  of  silver  daisies  rim  the  ripples  at  the 
brink, 

And  whir  the  homeward-wheeling  doves,  and  laughs 
the  bobolink — 

All  winged  choristers 

That  cheep  or  chirp  or  carol  by  clear  lake  or  dark  la- 
goon, 

Or  sweep  their  gyres  above  the  spires  amid  the  yellow 
noon, 

Or  cloaked  in  copse  of  eglantine  bewitch  the  mellow 
moon — 

Have  each  a  voice  like  hers. 


336 The  Lute  of  Life 

To  wear  the  wreath  thy  friends  bequeath,  an  emperor 
might  bow ; 

Laurel  and  bay  we  braid  to-day  to  bind  upon  thy  brow, 

Yet  half  the  honor  and  the  love  we  long  to  tell  thee 
now, 

Lies  hid  between  the  lines. 

Not  Ahab's  ivory  palace  high  could  match  thy  lowly 
home, 

Not  Omar's  mosque  with  Syrian  sun  spilled  on  its 
gilded  dome 

E'er  rbofed,  I  ween,  so  fair  a  scene,  when  happy  com- 
rades come 

To  meet  beneath  thy  pines. 

Not  only  that  thy  well-knit  soul  melodious  utterance 

hath, 

Not  only  that  the  ills  of  life  have  left  no  scar  nor  scath 

Upon  thy  gentle  human  heart,  make  we  to-day  a  path 

To  thy  warm,  gracious  hearth. 

We  heard  the  world's  old  whisper,  "Not  now,  but  after 

whiles — 

Wait  till  his  fame  is  full,  to  go  across  the  weary  miles 
And  fill  the  cup  of  friendship  up  and  gild  it  with  the 

smiles 

That  glow  at  honest  worth." 

But  wiser  we,  and  so  we  stand,  all  here  to  proudly  plead 
Thy  wisdom  and  thy  wondrous  art;  we  know  thou 

wilt  not  need 

Our  words  to  help  or  hearten  thee,  to  cheer  or  inter- 
cede, 

When  dust  is  on  thy  brow. 
We  will  not  seethe  death's  cypresses,  with  rooklike, 

dreary  din, 

Or  halt  around  thy  empty  house,  or  weeping  enter  in 
To  say  with  sobs,  "'Tis  such  as  he  the  poet's  crown 
doth  win" — 

We  say  it  here  and  now. 
— ROBERT 


The  Lute  of  Life 337 

SONNET  TO  A  SINGER 

Fair  poet  of  the  new  and  golden  West, 
I  gather  notes  that  wake  upon  the  lyre, 
And  body  them  as  voices  of  a  choir 

Are  swelled  in  joyous  song  and  hushed  to  rest; 

From  far-off  heights  where  the  Sierra's  crest 
Seems  half  to  drink  from  upward  waves  of  blue, 
From  eastern  cliffs  where  kinsmen  dwell,  and  true, 

I  catch  the  notes,  so  sweet  I  tremble  lest 

I  lose  their  power  from  out  my  laurel-song. 

0  poet- friend!  across  these  prairies  rare 

1  stretch  my  hand  to  clasp  your  hand  in  mine, — 
You,  too,  have  heard  the  tuneful  harps  that  throng 

The  winds  which  sweep  the  Illinoisan  air, 
And  whisper  still  of  music,  yet — divine. 

— MINNIE  ADEU<A  HAUSEN. 

OUR  SINGING  DOCTOR 
(JAMES  NEWTON  MATTHEWS) 

Dear  Galen,  I  thank  thee  again  for  thy  singing, 
As  one  thanks  the  robins  that  herald  the  spring, 

When  brows  that  are  aching 

And  hearts  that  are  breaking 
Are  mended  because  of  the  promise  they  bring. 

Through  woods,  over  meadows,  my  love  fareth  wing- 
ing, 

For,  "Bard  of  the  Prairies,"  my  soul  clings  to  thee 
As  mists  to  the  fountain, 
As  clouds  to  the  mountain, 

As  islanders  cling  to  their  crofts  by  the  sea. 

No  pink  teas  inspire  thee  with  frigid  emotion 
To  twitter  in  triolets  over  ice-cream; 

Nor  yet  may  those  measures 

That  scorn  the  rich  treasures 
Of  music  and  melody  utter  thy  dream, 

23 


338 The  Lute  of  Life 

The  voice  of  the  prairies,  the  breath  of  devotion, 
Up  fresh  from  the  sod,  from  the  blossom,  the  tree, 

In  summer  exhaling, 

Are  still  the  prevailing 
Provokers  of  song  to  the  spirit  of  thee. 

Like  ancient  Anacreon,   to   love  and   love's  longing 
Thou  touchest  a  harp  with  no  string  out  of  tune ; 

The  snows  may  be  flying, 

Euroclydon  crying, 
But  when  thou  art  singing  'tis  always  sweet  June. 

O  bard  of  the  prairies !  long  may  thy  dreams  thronging 
Flow  into  our  souls  with  their  raptures  divine; 
May  glad  intimations 
And  rare  divinations 
And  forecasts  of  paradise  ever  be  thine. 

— BENJAMIN  S.  PARKER. 


A  WREATH  O'  HEATHER 
(TO  j.  N.  M.) 

Din  ye  hear  the  Muses  singin' 

Doon  by  Jamie's  cot? 
Din  ye  hear  the  bluebells  ringin' 
For  the  fairies'  dancin'  swingin' 
Thro'  the  meadows — perfumes  clingin' 

Round  the  sacred  spot? 

Din  ye  see  the  cloudlets  bendin* 

O'er  that  nest  sae  braw? 
Heaven's  love  an'  light  a-blendin' 
In  the  sangster's  soul  an'  lendin' 
Beauty  to  the  notes  he 's  sendin' 
To  the  hearts  of  a'. 

Din  ye  ken  his  sangs  are  liftin' 
Care  fra  mony  a  heart? 


The  Lute  of  Life 339 

Fra  his  ain  the  warmth  he  's  shiftin' — 
Like  the  cheery  sunlight  siftin' 
Thro'  the  mist  that,  ever  driftin', 
Dims  earth's  fairer  part. 

Oot  to  him  my  heart  is  strayin' 

Weel  I  ken  will  shine, 
O'  the  year  the  merriest  day  on 
Which  I  greet  this  bard  an'  lay  on 
His  fair  brow  the  laurels — prayin' 

His  the  gift  divine. 

— ALONZO  HILTON  DAVIS. 


NATURE'S  TROUBADOUR 

(j.    N.    M.) 

Upon  thy  lips  a  joyous  song  is  heard, 
As  sings  the  poet,  sweetly  as  a  bird, 

As  if  it  were  a  very  joy  to  sing! 
The  voice  of  rivers  gladdens  thine  own  voice ; 
The  perfume  of  the  flowers  maketh  choice 

Thy  happy  roundelay's  rare  flavoring. 

FAIRCHILD. 


A  WESTERN  WARBLER 

When  Matthews  sings  the  soul  takes  wings 
And  soars  above  all  sordid  things; 
Straightway  the  brooding  heart  forgets 
Its  rankling  wrongs  and  vain  regrets, 
And  Error's  countless  stains  and  stings. 

Though  bleak  the  day,  the  chanson  brings 
The  splendors  of  undying  springs, 
And  scent  of  fadeless  violets, 

When  Matthews  sings. 


34°  The  Lute  o£  Life 

Right  royally  the  rhyming  rings! 
Right  gloriously  it  sweeps  and  swings! 
From  out  Life's  fevers,  fears,  and  frets 
A  deathless  dream  the  verse  begets, 
Round  which  caressing  Mem'ry  clings, 
When  Matthews  sings. 

— WAI/TER  HURT. 


MEMORIAL  POEMS 


A  DEATH-RUNE 

Who,  I  wonder,  will  weave 

My  winding-sheet? 

Who  at  my  feet 
Will  sit  in  the  gloom  and  grieve, 

When  Death  I  greet? 

What  hand  on  the  coffin-lid 

Will  press,  when  I 

Under  it  lie 
Hid,  as  a  dead  worm's  hid 

In  a  nut-shell  dry? 

Whose  hand  on  the  spade  will  be, 

When  the  dull  mold 

Is  shoveled  and  rolled 
Over  the  body  of  me, 

Lying  stark  and  cold? 

What  friendly  chisel  will  trace 

On  the  tablet  high 

The  generous  lie 
To  lighten  my  life's  disgrace, 

When  I'm  laid  by? 

What  poet-brother  will  write 
For  the  public  gaze 
A  pcean  in  praise 
Of  me  and  my  work,  when  the  night 

Drops  over  my  days? 
343 


344 The  Lute  of  Life 

What  form  in  the  after-years 

Will  pause  in  the  shade 

Where  I  am  laid, 
And  moisten  the  turf  with  the  tears 

Of  a  love  unpaid? 

Ah,  never  there  comes  a  reply 
To  the  curious  mind, 
And  yet  on  the  wind 
A  voice,  "Thou  shalt  die,  shalt  die," 

Forever  sweeps  by! 
JAMES  NEWTON  MATTHEWS. 


OUR  BELOVED  BARD 
(JAMES  NEWTON  MATTHEWS) 

The  prairie  blossoms  are  less  sweet 
To  wistful  eye  or  haunting  bee; 

The  long  hours  pass,  but  half  complete, 
For  want  of  song  and  thee. 

There  is  no  rapture  in  the  line 
Of  any  new  bard's  idle  lay; 

Rememb'ring  some  old  song  of  thine, 
I  turn  my  heart  away. 

Less  radiance  trembles  in  the  glow 
That  greets  me  at  the  dewy  dawn, 

Now  thy  rare  smile,  like  Iris'  bow 
Dissolved,  has  wandered  on. 

Dear  friend,  I  may  not  call  thee  dead, 
Since  everywhere  thy  voice  I  hear, 

Yet  something  fair  from  life  has  fled 
And  does  not  reappear. 

0  for  a  walk  beside  the  lake, 

A  talk  whereof  the  words  have  wings 
To  bear  us  far  where  ills  forsake 
And  joy's  light  laughter  springs! 

Such  walks  we  took  in  other  years, 
But  now — 'tis  hard  to  understand — 

1  walk  alone  through  mists  of  tears, 
Clasping  a  shadow  hand. 

******** 

345 


346 The  Lute  of  Life 

But,  presto,  some  clear  note  of  thine 
Rings  in  my  thought,  attunes  my  heart, 

And  once  again  life  seems  divine 
And  we  are  not  apart. 

The  new  bard's  singing  bringeth  bliss, — 
Thy  genial  spirit  wills  it  so, — 

And  all  is  right  and  naught  amiss 
As  hand  in  hand  we  go. 

— BENJAMIN  S.  PARKER. 


ODE 

(IN    MEMORY    OF   JAM^S    NEWTON    MATTHEWS) 
"  But — if  it  die."— JESUS  CHRIST. 

Ripe  "corn  of  wheat"  from  Poetry's  thin  ear, 
Thou  too  must  "fall  upon  the  ground  and  die," 
Lest  thou  "abide  alone."    Thy  minstrelsy 
Is  worthier  of  the  saints  who  dwell  on  high 

Than  of  our  feebler  souls  who  linger  here. 

The  utter  banishment  from  self,  revealed 
In  every  note  that  trembled  from  thy  lyre, 

§uite  freed  thy  mind  from  thralldom  of  desire 
or  fame,  when,  pregnant  with  seraphic  fire, 
It  bare  sweet  secrets — -from  the  world  concealed. 

We  read,  and  muse  upon  the  deep  pure  soul 
That  breathed  itself  upon  thy  shining  page, 
And  marvel  not  thou  should'st  not  be  the  rage 
Of  shallow  crowds  in  this  too  thoughtless  age : 

Such  meed  was  ne'er  thy  gentle  spirit's  goal. 

Rather — To  satisfy  some  brother  man 
Athirst  for  spiritual  waters,  clean, 
Refreshing,  from  the  depths,  before  unseen, 
Of  Human  Nature  sanctified, — hath  been 

The  well-spring  whence  thy  tide  poetic  ran. 


The  Lute  of  Life 347 

A  stream  of  song  so  exquisitely  clear, 

The  reader's  eye  may  in  those  depths  behold 
The  throbbings  of  a  heart  of  purest  gold — 
A  heart  that  beat  for  men  of  mortal  mold, 

Whom  pain  and  sorrow  brought  more  closely  near. 

O  good  Physician  of  all  several  parts 

Of  human  being, — body,  soul,  and  mind, — 
Thou  knewest  all  the  failings  of  our  kind, 
Yet  not  one  stanza  hast  thou  left  behind 

To  satirize  the  frailties  of  our  hearts. 

Kind  soul,  sweet  soul,  we  yield  thee  back  to  God, 
With  blessings  for  the  loan  His  goodness  lent 
To  teach  us  courage,  charity,  content; — 
Why  should  we  murmur  at  thy  swift  ascent 

Of  the  bright  Stair  thy  daily  footsteps  trod? 

We  give  thy  martyred  body  to  the  dust — 
Thou  all  too  kindly,  tender,  sensitive 
Physician,  who  didst,  like  the  Master,  give 
Thy  priceless  life,  to  help  one  mortal  live. 

Thy  soul  is  with  the  Lord  in  whom  we  trust. 

The  music  of  thy  lyre — no  funeral  knell — 

Rings  in  our  ears.     'Twill  make  our  lives  more 

sweet, 
More   soulful,  more   unselfish.     .     .    .    Till  we 

meet 

Where  spirits  blend  in  harmony  complete, 
Sleep  sweetly,  brother  bard.     So — fare  thee  well! 

— HENRY  TUDOR. 

MY  JAMESY 

'Twas  like  a  flash  of  darkness,  like  a  stroke 
Of  doom — the  paralyzing  news  that  came 
To  me  that  day ;  my  Jamesy  dead !    And  he, 
Whose  heart  had  through  all  these  teeming  years 


348 The  Lute  of  Life 

Beat  in  the  metre  and  the  rhyme  of  mine, 
Was  gone — translated  to  that  veiled  Beyond 
Of  which  we'd  talked  so  much,  my  Jamesy!     It 
Was  scarcely  thinkable  the  Cosmos  could, 
And  would,  spare  such  a  personality ! 
When  shall  it,  and  how  shall  it,  duplicate 
That  gentle,  generous,  noble  character? 
Who  now  shall  sing  those  sweet,  entrancing  notes 
Of  his,  so  far,  unsung?    What  gifted  one 
Shall  paint  upon  the  brow  of  Time  those  tones 
Of  high  thought,  and  those  mystic  miracles 
Of  dreamery,  with  all  the  trills  and  thrills 
Whose  birthplace  and  whose  home  are  now  no  more? 
Let's  hope  there  is  a  "choir  invisible" 
That  now  shall  catch  up  those  unuttered  lays 
Of  our  sweet  poet,  now  sleeping  his  last  sleep. 

A  martyr  to  his  duty,  this  brave  man 
Gave  up  his  life  that  others  might  live  on. 
And  shall  the  ones  to  whom  he  ministered 
Quite  realize  the  sacrifice  he  made 
For  their  own  sakes? 

And  what  is  left  for  her 
Whose  sleepless  love  and  loyalty  made  life 
For  him  one  long  and  joyous  summer-time? 
There's  left  a  memory  of  duty  done, 
O'er-sweetened  with  the  fragrance  of  his  past. 
For  her,  for  me,  for  all  who  knew  him  well, 
Life's  brighter,  happier,  and  more  worth  while 
Because  he  was.     Farewell,  our  preciously 
Beloved  departed  one;  our  Jamesy,  our 
Examplar,  and  our  star  of  love,  farewell! 

— WIGWAM  COI^BY  COOPER. 


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